


Altogether True

by clusband



Series: Marchix Cinematic Universe [1]
Category: Hiveswap
Genre: (of a sort), Alcohol, Character Study, Complete, Developing Relationship, F/M, Juggalo Lore, POV Multiple, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Psychic Fuckery, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-23
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-03-13 06:47:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18935581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clusband/pseuds/clusband
Summary: As she speaks, her voice fills the room, musical like a harp, hard like a church bell, searching from wall to corner, begging for prayer. Damn, you can get into that.orHow Chixie and Marvus were drawn together, and what keeps them apart.





	1. Slipping Through the Cracks

Despite all your efforts, one slips through.

A cerulean. Well, makes sense. Your body guards are busy with the stronger castes, blue boys and fishy fucks. A little dude like that you can handle, a little dude like that poses no threat. You pretend not to notice him; your psychic power rides in the forefront of your mind, powerful and bright like the rage of an angel.

But he presses back, all excitement and nerves and intent combine with the psychic strength that comes with his caste, too, and fuck, your head fucking hurts. You’re tired throughout your body and you really just need some time to recharge.

Your saving grace turns out to be a little bronzie, absorbed in the cycle of attempting to unlock her door, and being denied access. And what better deterrent than a lowblood with nowhere to go? You put your arm around her shoulders, acting the part as you jostle her forward, and she catches on. And she doesn't want to, but she follows. Because you suggest that she does. And with the weight of your mind all a-slam against hers like the sea awash against the rocks, she’s still and stony and silent, powerless against you.

“Eyy dats the wrong room sis backstage is this way,” and you push her along, fingers tippy-tapping at the small of her back. You catch a flash of irritation light up her features, dropping her coffee cup as you pull her along, and you must be tired if she can even get that little piece of her through your vice on her mind. But she follows you, with you all unbidden in her head. And little blue gets the hint. And little blue fucks right off.

Backstage is quiet. Where's all the other clowns? Then you realize your bronze girl is still following you all in a trance. Whoopsie.

“Whoops sorry bout dat lol,” you attempt to release your hold on her, and realize you didn’t have her in your grip in the first place. Uh.

“What's up lol?” What’s she still doing here? You plop down on one of the couches, grabbing a sandwich from one of the catering trays sitting on the table in front of you. Her face changes, from irritated to that one soft, apologetic face that all lowbloods make at highbloods so that you don’t cull they asses. But her posture is harder than steel, and if she ain’t saying it with her face, so be it that she says it with her body. Least she’s saying something. Respect.

“It looks like I’ve been locked out of my block again,” she disregards your question, slumping a well practiced slump, a soft, apologetic smile begging for your pity. _Get me into my damn room,_ her body says. Cute. As she speaks, her voice fills the air, musical like a harp, hard like a church bell, searching from wall to corner, begging for prayer. Damn, you can get into that.

But you can also be a gentleman. You hold out your hand to her from your position, reclined on the couch, wiping the crumbs off on the cushions as you rest your half-eaten sandwich on your thigh. Grub paste spills out all onto your pants, got damn. But you raise your brow at her, expectant, and she stands up a little straighter, catching on to her mistake.

“I’m Chixie,” she says, proud as a peach. Oh shit! You haven’t heard of her. She mimics your raised brow, playful, as she holds her hand halfway out to you. Aw shit, she’s going for a stalemate. Little does she know; you never lose.

“Marvus,” you lean forward even more, prodigiously relaxed through the awkward reach of your arm. You grab her by the fingertips and pull her forward, and you guessed right, she does perform. The stumble of her feet is rhythmic, like a dance. Her falling forward mirrors how you moved on stage, not hours before. Your fingers twine up her palm and over her wrist, and you draw her gently into your space.

You take a good look at her. She’s cute, scared but strong willed. You’re tired. The throb of your head is moves in time with the bump of the music a couple hundred feet away. Messiahs know you could use a bit of love tonight.

“Why bother going to your room when you could jus crash at mines ;o)” you press a suggestive kiss to her wrist. She tenses, finger by finger and up her wrist to her arm. It’s not revulsion, exactly, but it stings nonetheless. You consider pressing little kisses up her tense muscles, all itsy-bitsy spider like. The thought makes you smile. This whole interaction makes you tired. Er. Tireder. More tired. God damn, you need to sleep. You release her wrist, trailing your fingers over her like spider silk as she pulls her arm back to her waist, cradling it like she was just bit. Ouch.

Irritation lights up again, this time behind her little ‘I’m just a lowblood, please don’t hurt me!’ mask. And irritation lights up behind the sharp throb of your headache.

“If you aren’t going to help me…” She trails off. Aw shit, you didn’t mean to ruin her night. And she’s tensing all hard as steel again, standing tall and proud and really you don’t have time to navigate her sea of bad feelings.

The first brush of your fingers against her face is softer than silent, sweeter than cotton candy. She stutters out a sigh. Seems she wants to be angry with you still. You press your palm down, like an ice pack against a bruise, clinical and faraway, but genuine, letting her guide this scene.

“Shoosh,” you say anyway, and maybe it’s because _you_ needed it. And she goes all tilt-a-whirl on you, swaying with her opposing needs; to be angry with you, and righteous, or to relax under your hand? You smile. She’s funny.

You’ve relaxed. Her face is warm where your hands are so cold. Her voice carries the harsh heat of fire where yours is the smooth slide of ice. _Fate,_ you think. Your guts go cold with the thought, your heart excited. Blessed be to the Messiahs, that they led you down this path.

“Where ya gonna go anyway? You got kicked, baby brown,” This turns out to be the wrong thing to say. All that work you did, shooshing and papping, undone by her single step back. You sit up- aw shit, your sandwich gets smushed under your ass. Damn it.

“I’ll find somewhere,” she says, her voice all faraway. But her body says _I’m scared._

“I’ll make it on my own,” she says, and her body says _I always do._

She leaves you behind, your sandwich long since demolished under your weight, your head screaming with the searing hot pain of a thousand pins and needles again. A scream wells up in your lungs, gets caught in your throat and travels up into your tear ducts.

But you believe that she really meant what she was saying.


	2. The Coarse Grains and a Soft Voice

Doesn’t take a legislacerator to find a coffee shop. Especially if the name of that coffee shop is printed right there for all to see on a discarded coffee cup, left behind by a cute girl in a big rush.

It only takes a few days for 'stopping for coffee' to become part of your routine. Doesn't matter that you can only drink decaf- your head's been killing you these days- and it doesn't matter that the coffee tastes like it came out of a dirty dusty grease trap. You're looking for her, and if it's fate that you have to suffer through some subpar coffee, then suffer is what you'll do. Messiahs love a patient man.

But like. What if you're reading this whole thing wrong. Just cause _you_ felt what you felt don't mean that she did too. Your boy Slamzy says this shit's fucking foolish, maybe your heart is leading you astray. _You been alone too long bro_ , he says. _Lowbloods and highbloods don't mix like that_ , he says. You take a sip of your coffee. It's gone cold.

And maybe he's right, is the thing, Slamzy ain't stupid, but you didn't get where you got in life by just laying back and letting shit pass you by. You went out there, set things in motion. You worked hard. So now when the world spins around you, you know to reach out your hand and take what's yours.

Rehearsal passes you by in a flurry of limbs. You try bringing the tempo of your own music up, then down, keeping on beat. You lead, and your dancers follow. 'Cause the best way to find perfection is to shake things up a lil. And the best way to stay distracted, focused, is to do something worth doing, and making sure you're doing it well. Your backup dancers praise you to your painted face, but you know in their hearts they gotta be big mad. Leave it to Marvus to make things a little tough just cause he's feeling some type a way, right?

But maybe this _is_  foolish, you think. Looking for this girl who never looked back after leaving you behind.

Church is serene and silent that day, still as stone, with your head bowed in reflection and your thoughts spinning with the weight of your prayers. The dried sweat from rehearsal sticks to you like a second skin. Your hair's all hot around your headache. Shit sucks. 

 _Let things fall into place,_ says your own personal Jake the Just, sitting righteous and bold as you please right on your right shoulder. But your Jack the Sinister says _'go out and take what's yours,'_ digging his mischievous claws up your neck and straight into your brain, and who are you to turn your back on the shit that gives you results? You shake them out of your head. What is this, a religious allegory for grubs? You're a grown man, for fuck's sake. You make the decisions, you're swayed only by your own thoughts, messiahs and joker cards and clowns got fuck all to do with it.

But something’s screaming in the back of your head, and you know: this is more than that. Love can't be forced. A selfish and unholy man might press the weight of his will against the world, letting the claws of his mind take root and draw things toward him. You gotta be clever. You gotta be just. But above all, you gotta accept that you have to just fucking go for it, and be prepared for failure.

Opening your eyes, raising your head, you take in the stained glass. The Mighty Death Pop fills your vision, shards of glass sticking out like they was broken off. The verse fills your mind, unbidden but well practiced:

_Let your balls hang out if you wanna_

_But don't cry when they get kicked_

_The black out's sudden end to your party_

_The mighty death pop happens quick_

_Every day throw it up, celebrate life_

_Cuz that shit could pop tonight_

So poignant; a tear rolls down your cheek. Your faith lifts your spirits, helps you find your way when you get all lost like this. 

And your faith's what makes life all worth living, day by merry fucking day.

* * *

Next time you meet her it's two weeks later. Two weeks of chugging through your slug ass coffee, the grinds greasy and coarse against your tongue. Two weeks of getting caught in a cycle of doubt and self assuredness so twisted and spun you're worn thin like spun sugar, brittle and fragile and still so sickly sweet on her. Your mind is tight like a tourniquet on the world around you. The area you’re in is densely populated with lowbloods. Last thing you need is a scandal on your damn hands: local clown celebrity spotted drinking foul coffee right in the dank depths of fucking brown town. It’s not a good look on you.

She nearly upends her box of what the fuck ever, running all into as she did while you got lost in your thoughts. Damn, you were trying to be inconspicuous, not invisible. You loosen your grip upon the world, and your vision spins. Might be that you're overdoing it. You're feeling a little stressed out.

But she recovers quick, the automatic 'I'm sorry' on her lips ignored by the both of you. You watch her. W _hy are **you** here, _ a quirk of her brow asks as she side eyes you. _I think it's nice to see you,_ says the tilt of her hips, the cross of her arms. Maybe you're imagining that last bit. But a clown can have hope.

“Eyy my bad sis,” you help her set everything to rights. You didn’t even know this place sold anything other than wack motherfucking coffee.

“I didn’t think I’d be seeing you again. And... so soon,” he smile is wry where her voice is nervous, and you notice the line of tension pulse through her, running through her hands and up her arms. It feels like you swallowed glass, stuck painful in your guts. Your hands are buzzing with wanting. Wanting to soothe her. To smooth her out. To set her to rights again.

You hold up both your hands instead- palms forward, placating- doing your best to be non threatening.

“I promise imma keep my hands to myself this time,”

“You seem so sure,” she teases, glancing at your hands as she finally lets the tension bleed out of her, however slow-like. She does a double take when she notices the coffee cup in your hand. “You actually buy coffee from this place?”

You also glance at the coffee cup. Though it’s only been two weeks, the habit has become familiar. A small comfort in your hectic life. You shrug.

“Everyone knows the coffee here is terrible,” she hides her smile behind her hand, poking you in the bicep like she played a joke on you and you haven’t gotten around to noticing.

Warmth radiates from the spot where she touches you. You thought it would be so much harder to keep your shit together, your hands aching to touch her the way they are, from in your pocket, from around a cup of coffee so bad that you should be culled for allowing them to continue to sell it. A million different scenarios got to flowing in your mind these past two weeks- her hand on your arm, her lips on your cheek. Your hands smoothing her hair. But this, with her standing in front of you, alternating shy and silly. This is better than that. Watching her smile. Making her laugh. Taking your time with things.

You laugh, hoping you don’t sound as suddenly shy as you feel.

“Think we might be heading in the same direction, b,” you start, performing a hammed up version of _feeling shy,_ all looking through your lashes at her and shit, making yourself small. Cause even if what you’re feeling is true, it’s easier to show when you’ve got control over it. It’s like you can control how shit’s about to go down, and if you’re acting the right part she might follow.

“Which direction is that?”

“Away,” you say, jerking your head behind you. She smiles again, brushing past you to head back to Who-knowsville.

But this time, you follow.

* * *

You follow her through a park, right through the center of town. Damn you didn’t even know this was here.

You can almost hear the time tick, tick, ticking away, what with the beats all around you. A frog jumps with perfect timing, catching a dragonfly on his tongue; your steps, falling in line with her smaller stride; you, opening your mouth to speak, and she, doing the same, and both of you stumbling over the ‘no, you go ahead, what were you saying?’ as the moment passes.

You play a little game with her. Changing your gait, you make a scotch snap style beat with your combined footfalls. You step first, a perfect metrically accented sixteenth note against her previous footfall, then you hear her step, an eighth note, cut short. Precise, on beat. Only works once or twice in measure, since you really ain’t walking that fast, but at least you got in sync somewhere, even if it was just once.

You listen to her breathing beside you as you trip and stumble over each other's words once more. She takes three deep breaths before she even thinks about saying something, then a short, shallow one before she speaks, like she's about to lose her courage so she's gotta get it all out in one breath. You learn how to listen to her- check you out, learning as you go! You're pretty proud of that.

You tell her she sounds like she sings; with the measured rhythm of her breaths and the easy quality of her voice, it's impossible to keep the thought out of your head. You keep that last part to yourself, though. She beams at you, so sweet and bright and loud like thunder and lightning.

She tells you all about how she got started, and, get this, she took actual singing lessons.

She tucks a shy strand of hair behind her ear as she glaces sideways at you. You know that look already, she's testing you.

"I'm sure this all sounds so... droll to you," she starts. But she ain't shy about it, squaring up like she's prepared to fight you, get the kung-fu drop on your ass. Hell yeah, you're up for that. Let's get physical, baby.

Wait- didn't she say something? Yeah, something's droll or some shit. And who says droll anyway like some kinda high-strung blueblood, the fuck? She's talking about her singing lessons, you're pretty sure. So much for your great listening skills.

"Nahhh, I mean you got da leg up on me though haha," you take a minute, watching her reaction. There's nothing. "I just do what feels right and then my pr manager tells people that I'm great, you feel me? They're messiahs sent, I swear."

Oh fuck, you started babbling about yourself. You didn't mean to get that personal.

"Well, you can get away with that," she says, with a smile so sad it pulls her whole face down until she ain't even looking at you anymore. "I work hard. And I'm still down here."

Your blood stills in your veins, even as your heart stutters staccato in your chest. She's cherubic, with the lights of the city behind her and her slightly smushed box held tightly to her chest. Her face is twisted, all vulnerable and small in her anguish, and filled with righteous anger at the systemic oppression that keeps her down. She's letting her guard down, it's almost scandalous. Damn it, and you already promised to keep your hands to yourself.

But a beat passes, and she meets your eyes again. You missed... something, it feels like. The timing is all off again.

"How could you ever get that?" she asks you. And she sounds all mad, her face twisted with frustration. But you're starting to see the truth of things. She's unsure. Unsure about trusting you. Unsure that she could ever need you the way you need her. But you didn't get what you got by just letting shit pass you by.

And just like that, the gears all fall in place. She's a girl who takes singing lessons, but nobody ever taught her how to _feel_ it. The conversational beats are as obvious in your head as a drum hook: what you both said, when you both decided not to say anything. Your offset footfalls, a game you played with her. But she got it. She gets it.

"Wellll guess I couldn't," you venture, too honest by far but she needs to hear it. "Not unless I got you to tell me about it."

You let her read your features, a lesson in honesty. Her gaze passes over you, hard and meaningful like a brick to the face. It's scary, letting yourself just be out there.

Out of nowhere, the verse fills your head again. _Let your balls hang out if you wanna..._ Maybe it's time to let your heart hang out.

"You know, a lot of us slam poets do our best work on da fly," you smile at her, finally finding peace. Maybe you might fuck this all up, but at least you tried.

"Bold words, coming from a man who regularly slogged through Alternia's worst coffee for how many days?" She finally softens, smile breaking through the stony stillness of the mask on her face.

"2 weeks baby girl," you laugh, the ridiculousness of the situation catching up with you. "I wanted to get to know you."

"Well, everyone starts somewhere,"

"Oh shit haha!"

You're both laughing now, and you sneak a good look at her. She's beautiful, through and through. She's got one of those honest laughs where she throws her head back and lets her breath carry her voice up up and away. Her face lights up with it, your world brightens with it.

But all good things must end. Your schedule is closing in around you, you're already late to your tailor.

You walk together in silence for a moment, trying to make it comfortable. You bump her with your hip.

"Come over for dinner next week," you say.

It takes a few minutes to negotiate. Damn, maybe you really do need a perspective check, because you would have never believed that her schedule could be as busy as yours. But it is, and now you have one new thing to be late for: an early dinner, on Sunday, after midnight massacre.

You watch her walk away, her steps lighter, the crumpled box under her arm shifting on her hip in time with her stride. And you realize for the first time in two weeks, your headache hasn't come back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi if you could do me a favor and imagine ICP's Death Pop as a church chorus? Thanks.
> 
> Want to know what the fuck i was going on about with scotch snaps? Check this out, I might end up referencing this video in the next chapter anyway: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i7cG9QIvIWo


	3. Saying it Outloud

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cw for alcohol in this chapter.

Time and circumstance delay your dinner by a day, then a week, before you’re wondering if maybe this is how getting ghosted starts.

He seems like the type, that’s all.

It takes very little to cheer you up- one of your friends comes over to laugh at some of Zebruh Codakk’s more obnoxious reviews. They get it- in fact, they tell you this hilarious (but, under the surface, terrifying) story about how he kept them at their hive for hours once, talking about forms of love and hate that they could never understand. You know, because they're an alien and all. You laugh, hiding your discomfort behind genuine mirth. It feels almost like freedom, having someone else who can see that this whole thing is ridiculous.

Then they tell you about how Zebruh tried to scam his way into Marvus’s quadrants, wondering why he has to come up with these elaborate schemes instead of just asking him out like a normal person, and it all comes crashing around you. Too many emotions to catch a hold of- your pale fling with this alien, seeking a love they never knew how to feel. Marvus’s abandonment, and seeking a love he might not know how to give. How crushingly lonely and difficult it is to be here on the bottom with so much shining just above you, if only you could reach a little more, grab a hold of it. Even your alien friend wouldn’t be able to understand that. A part of you wonders how they managed to get by, not knowing the way of things here, and then deciding not to care when they learned.

You show them out with a _take care of yourself_ , a gentle hand holding tenuously on their shoulder, not sure if the genuine worry you feel for them is right or wrong, reciprocated or ignored. Maybe it really says something about you that your best and truest friend is an alien.

It’s one of those nights that squeeze, slowly, around you, where even a song won’t help. And while you have the rare discomfort of your silence, you look for a way out.

 

* * *

 

Downtown is as loud and noisy as always. It’s hard to hear your thoughts, your bad mood louder than your desire to feel better. You think back to your singing lessons, how music is a reflection of language. Over-stimulation turns to observation- you listen to the music of the world as you stumble forward, no direction in particular.

You hear an auspictice trio- the highs and lows of the mediator, alternating frustrated and appeasing. The back and forth of the two he’s mediating between, a song in conversation, the crescendos of frustration and staccato of insecurity. Even in this, there’s beauty. There's song. You take your inspiration where you find it, letting it spin idly around in the part of your brain that connects these musical pieces almost by instinct.

Before long, you hear real music in the unsure waver of the voice of someone untrained. Then: the swell of many trolls, singing along and laughing. It sounds like this troll has stage presence, then, before you recognize the melody- a popular upbeat sort of song, you’ve been hearing it everywhere on the radio and in commercials. Is this a karaoke bar?

Suddenly, an idea strikes you. You check your surroundings, the name of the streets, then you pull out your phone. 

It takes you several times to get out the words, and several minutes to find the words themselves. 

 _CR: Marvus! I was thinking about you and-_  no, too sincere.

 _CR: Hi Marvus- lets hang out tonight-_ no, too detached, formal, and to be honest, you kind of want to impress him.

You think back to something, anything, that might make you charming to him. It comes to you slowly- ‘brevity is the soul of it,’ or something. It’s a religious saying you never really took stock in. Until now.

_C: I’m at a karaoke bar / listening to the worst performance of the worst pop song ever written_

You hit send with your heart racing. Everything in you is screaming with anxiety- if he’s ghosting you, now is when you’ll find out. There are parts of you that would rather stay in this safe zone, unsure but not rejected... yet. You put your phone away along with your thoughts and order a beer. For nerves. Of course.

Your phone buzzes not too long after.

_MX: oh shizz !_

_MX: without me :o( ?_

You smile- you really missed talking to him. He’s silly, always flirting outrageously and trying to make you laugh

_CR: I wasn’t sure if you had time for me /_

You hit send without considering your tone- you suppose you sound bitter. Quickly, you send him another text.

_CR: Think you can make some?_

There’s a dark moment when you consider sending him a wink emoji to really get your point across, but it passes.

_MX: im down for spending time w a cute girl turn up lol !_

_MX: wya tho_  

You send him your location and finally put your phone down. You start to take another sip of your beer only to find that you’ve emptied your glass. Quickly, you ask the bartender to get rid of it. Marvus does not need to know how nervous you are about this.

Scanning your head slowly from side to side, you take in the bar. This is the cramped part of the city- real estate is expensive and hard to come by. This bar is hardly even a bar- more an alcove, most of the seating is outside. The main bar can be closed off with an iron gate that pulls down from the ceiling, and the party can continue outside of it’s legally defined parameters. Interesting move- if a troll gets killed in a bar fight, it’s not really on the owner's shoulders. Legally, anyway- you suppose there can still be a revenge culling. The neon yellow and cyan lights above the bar cut through even the more expensive flashing lights of the bars above and around it, and the lava lamp style board taking up the wall behind the bar transfixes the drunk, drugged and sober alike. The owner may not have originally been very rich, but they’re savvy and it shows.

Suddenly, you hope Marvus can find you here. Anxiety sparks a little, deep in your gut. No. Tonight is not going to be one of the rough ones. You’re turning your mood around, one way or another.

Instead, you watch the next karaoke singer- a seadweller. They must be here with a date. You groan when they pick a sappy flushed love song- talk about not being able to read the crowd. These trolls were just bumping and dancing to something fast and upbeat, and now this idiot is trying to slow it down abruptly. You roll your eyes, and hope the next performer can play damage control.

As you get lost, listening to the smooth tones of this troll’s voice- they're talented, despite their obvious discomfort with a crowd- a sudden cold hits your shoulder. With that, a thrill of fear runs itself down your spine and spreads its wings all alongside your ribs. It’s a familiar feeling, and you do what you can to keep yourself from curling in on yourself.

“Hi Marvus,” you say, turning to look at him, a hopeful smile beginning to warm you from the inside out. 

“Ayy wassup? Hope you didn't start the party without me lol,” he gives you a smile, and maybe you’re imagining it, but you think you see a little bit of your own hope reflected in him.

“I don’t think that’s possible,” you tease, distracted. He trails his hand over your shoulder, behind your neck, before he jostles you on the other shoulder, all playful innocence again, and finds his own chair. Your skin is buzzing from where he touched you.

You hope your one beer isn’t about to sabotage you. 

“What happened to keeping your hands to yourself?” you attempt a joke to hide how much he affected you, rubbing shoulders with him. 

“LOL it was only a one time promise sis,” he says, before meeting your gaze. He goes a little still, and, it’s hard to tell, but you think he might look a little nervous suddenly. 

“But, uh, if you want-” 

You cut him off. “No, no, I’m sorry, it’s fine, really.”

You reach your hand out, touching him on the bicep as softly as you dare. You see a million different decisions you could make, their outcomes and how you feel about them. But you want this, this easy friendliness. Honesty. And to be completely fair, you could use another friend besides an alien.

“I’m just feeling a little nervous,” you put on your best winning smile, as if being honest with him doesn’t scare the hell out of you. But you can feel that it falls flat. 

“What you nervous for baby? Ain’t I already here?”

His expression is soft and friendly, but you catch a little bit of trepidation. And like that, watching him feel the same feelings that you're struggling to work through, it hits you all at once- you can relax around him. This is the guy who subjected himself to two weeks worth of Alternia’s worst coffee just to see you again.  
  
Instead of focusing your monologue in, you take a good look at him. His outfit gives away nothing- pink tank top, holographic jacket, harlem pants that are striped black and white on one side and diamond patterned on the other, and, presumably, a pair of what sound like the distinctive ‘flip-flap’ of slides. Enough gold, in his rings, around his neck, to buy your hive and all of your belongings three times over with cash to spare. He could just as easily be coming from a meeting with his legislacerator as from the gym. He twists a little on his seat, crossing his ankle over his knee and trying to catch a glimpse of the stage. The motion of his legs reveals his socks, patterned with his own face paint design. You really don’t know what to make of that.

“Nice socks,” you comment. He wiggles his toes at you in response.

“Hehe I know da guy who makes 'em if you want a pair,” you can almost hear the wink emoji in his voice. “Or you could jus have these ones- bet they'd make a cash-killing on e-slay once word got out I was wearin 'em.”

“Ew!” you say, laughing as he shoves his foot at you, fending him off.

Marvus laughs with you- you notice the way his nose wrinkles as he laughs, disturbing the neat covering of his face paint, and the way he opens his mouth wide, as if he's trying to get as much laughter out at once.

Moments pass- Marvus points out the decor (he says the lava lamp back-board is ‘wicked’ and you can’t tell if that means he likes it or if it’s some kind of clown blasphemy until you catch him watching it, transfixed, for minutes at a time), and you talk about the owner’s ingenuity for making this place what it is, before Marvus finally settles down enough to study the singer for a few moments, resting his chin on his hand. His expression looks passive at first, but you think that might just be what he painted there. As you look closer, you notice he’s wearing a much more complicated expression- confusion and humor mixing on his face.

“Damn talk about not being able to read da crowd lol,” he says as a server sets down two drinks before you. One is bright- striped pastel yellow, pink and blue and surrounded by fruit and two (two!!!) little yellow umbrellas. The other is simple, a soft lavender drink sparkling with silver. You bristle, before the colorful drink is placed in front of Marvus. You take a sniff of your own, as subtly as you can. It smells mostly like lemons and shoe polish- it must be gin, then- but with a floral note you can’t place. Not quite lavender, but something similar…

Marvus is slurping his drink noisily next to you, much to the chagrin of everyone around you. You notice a pair of bluebloods move away with a scoff, and a tealblood clears her throat loudly next to you. Marvus pays them no mind, signaling to the bartender for another drink and he pulls the flesh out of a pineapple slice with his teeth. It’s gruesome- suddenly, you’re a little relieved you didn’t see him after his midnight massacre last week.

As you watch him down nearly his entire second drink, there’s a little competitive thrill that runs through you, wants to keep up. After all, his drinks are huge. Your little purple drinks hardly compare, but you push that down. No need to get drunk on your first date. 

Well, not sloppy drunk, anyway.

You take a little sip of your drink- it’s not nearly as bitter as you’d have first thought, though it’s not your favorite. You watch the maraschino cherry bob up and down, mesmerized by the lights sparkling off whatever is metallic and silver in there.

“Soooo whats it gonna take to get you up there?” Marvus’s voice is close in your ear as he leans in to poke you in the ribs. You decide not to move away, taking another sip of your drink to buy time.

“You go first,” you say, channeling your competitive spirit into this. You don’t know if he’ll really back down, since he’s the only clown here, and a celebrity to boot.

“Bet,” he says, finishing his drink and leaving you behind before you can even figure out what you’re supposed to be betting on.

Oh, god, you hope you didn’t just set a riot in motion. You slam back the rest of your drink, signalling your need for another, before slamming that back, too.

Marvus is climbing the stage, it looks so natural you think that maybe he hatched up there. There’s something about him- he doesn’t look like the Marvus you see on tv. In fact, you almost wouldn’t recognize him if you hadn’t made note of his outfit. You catch the shine of his eyes, luminous in the way all psychic’s eyes are.

Ah. Oh. That explains it. You are unbelievably nervous about this.

“Ay yo!” he starts, catching the attention of nearly the whole street. “Y’all ready to pump this shizz upp LOL!”

Predictably, the crowd goes completely shit-hive bananas for this. You get the feeling you are in some serious danger, and make your way into the alcove where the bar is, grabbing your now third- _fourth_ drink almost as an afterthought. It’s lonely in here, everyone has evacuated to watch him sing someone else’s song, so you decide to stand on the counter. You’re small enough that you can still just barely see him; the lights are bright behind him, his hair gets caught in the stale alley wind. Unreal.   

But, the longer the song goes on, the more you realize that this is nothing like one of his concerts. Nobody is getting ripped apart. The screams are screams of excitement, not death. You idly wonder if you’re going to have to pay for your drinks after all of the business Marvus is bringing to this bar.

In the spirit of the chaos going on around you, you hop behind the bar and make your own drink. As you stumble forward, you decide to make it just some club soda and lemon- the world is spinning and tilting around you. You sit on the counter this time, joining in with the shouts and whoops of the crowd. 

You barely notice the actual lyrics of whatever song he’s singing, but you do notice when he inserts his own freestyles here and there. You catch them briefly- most of them are suggestive, such as the ones he’s singing now:

_Catch me with the wettest_

_Callin me seadweller_

_Drowning in ya nook_

_I aint never seen redder_

It’s so him that you have to laugh- he’s making fun of the overwrought lovesong that one troll was just singing. You think back to what you were thinking earlier, how language shapes the music each person makes. His way of speaking is clear through every enunciation of every letter. You wonder if the audience is picking up on that.

He catches your eye, watches you laugh before letting out a pleased laugh of his own between verses. You watch the way he moves, leaning and bobbing into the crowd at one minute, pulling away and- you search for the right word through your drunken haze- stomping around the next.

The song ends, and he meets you by the bar. Somebody else has taken the stage, riding on the high he left behind. He’s incredible. You feel incredible. You want so badly to grab him by the hands, smooth out his flyaways. You bet his hair takes hours to do. You want to spend hours undoing. You want him to make up silly songs just for you.

“Ey hows da view up there,” he smiles at you, joining you at the bar. From your position seated on the counter, his face is level with yours, his expression as bright and proud as fireworks. Your hands are alight, restless with how bad you want to hold his face, steady the spinning image of him between your hands and kiss him right on the nose.

It’s possible those drinks you were drinking were a little stronger than you anticipated. 

“You were- wow! That was incredible!” you’re giggling at him. Uh-oh, you sense that this might be embarrassing later. You turn your gaze down, shaking your head as if to clear your thoughts and taking a moment to get a hold of yourself. This only makes you more dizzy. You grab the ends of his hair from where they’re resting on his chest, rubbing them between your fingers. It’s exactly as soothing as you thought it would be.

He glances around, making sure the two of you are still away from the crowd, before leaning into your space and giving you a... look. It’s hard to interpret but you’re pretty sure that’s concern.

“You know, it would be easiert- _easier_ to read your expess- espresh- _face_ without all the paint,” you slur at him. He doesn’t react outside of an easygoing laugh. Damn you were hoping that maybe- what’s the expression? Not seeing the blush for the facepaint?

But as he tucks a strand of hair away, you see his ears are all purple. Success! _Hee hee_ , you laugh to yourself 

You take three deep breaths, steadying yourself, letting the world come back into focus. You realize you've placed your palms against his chest to steady yourself. His hands have grabbed you by the wrists, rubbing soothing circles into the back of your hands. It just serves to make you more dizzy.

“I think it’s time for me to go home,” you say, as sober as you can. You’re suddenly thankful you aren’t a weepy drunk.

He holds your expression, serious in a way you’ve never seen him before.

“I think you're right,” he says, gentle and appeasing. “Need a ride?” 

* * *

 

The ride back to your hive goes by in flashes.

There's you, pressing your face into Marvus’s arm, hiding your smile. You giggle, and he calls you giggly which makes you giggle harder, and you remember the sound of his laugh, soft and fond, right next to you but so far away. He’s so cold, you want to wrap him in your arms and make him warm and cozy. But you don’t.

There's him, abruptly bringing his hand to your hair and scratching and then, just as abruptly, stopping. You ask him to do that again, but he doesn’t.

You wake up, slung unceremoniously over his shoulder as he unlocks the door to your hive. An absent part of you is wishing you’d thought to clean up today. He places you near your coon, asking if you can handle it from here. He places down a glass of water- where did he get that?- and you search his face. With the world spinning around you, he looks scary with his white face paint and the gray diamonds around his eyes. Diamonds. You’re scared. 

But he puts his hand under your chin, wiping your jaw with his thumb as if he can rub away your tense expression, asking if you’re good. And it works, hearing his voice- as always, your feelings are right there, in him, plain to see. Or, hear, you guess your eyes have closed, so easily soothed you were by a single touch. You’re so happy he’s here, talking to you. You feel safe around him, inexplicably. _I’ll keep my hands to myself_ , you catch yourself recalling as you press your face into his palm, although you don’t quite get the language right. How did he say it to you, that once? 

“Stay with me,” you ask him as you fall asleep again. You don’t know if you’re speaking aloud, or if he can hear your thoughts somehow, or if he’s even still here but you say it again anyway.

But when you wake up the next morning, he’s gone.


	4. Learning the Language

Crawling to the ablutionblock with a hangover is a lot less glamorous in real life than in a pale romcom. You attempt to push yourself off of the side of your recouperacoon with little success- standing brings the whole world spinning around you, sliding back down makes you nauseous. Your neck and back are killing you from sitting upright against your coon in your sleep. At the very least, the proximity to the slime has quelled your nightmares.

Crawling brings you progress. The ablutionblock draws ever near as you drag yourself across the floor in short bursts, doing what you can to settle your stomach, and let the throbbing in your head subside. You can do this.

It’s just, you know, you wish you weren’t alone.

The events of last night come crashing toward you like a landslide. Memories flash in and out: your face against Marvus’s arm, his hair brushing against your cheek. His breath at your temple, the ghost of a kiss. Your laughter and his steady hand in your hair. The nausea that resurfaces now has nothing to do with your hangover.

Somehow, between bouts of feeling sick and dizzy, you finally make it. The sweat that’s accumulated all over your body does nothing to lift your mood. You let your cheek press against the cool tiles of the floor, bringing both hands to your hair to let air circulate around your scalp. There’s a moment where you consider falling back asleep, here on the floor, the cool tiles comforting against every inch of your skin. But you’ve had hangovers before, and you know that feeling better is going to take some work.

The sound of something clattering against the floor catches your attention- oh, your phone just got enough text messages to buzz right out of your pocket. You shove down your annoyance- who the fuck is texting you at the ass end of the evening?

_MX: ay bby u up yet_

_MX: hope ur feelin btr than u looked last morning lol !_

_MX: hey_

_MX: wats this say_

He’s sent you blurry images of a menu. Cluckbeast soup. Charred grubloaf. Cured moobeast slices by the pound. It looks like he went to the deli downtown. The menu is pretty easy to read, clear cut. You don’t understand what he’s asking. Your stomach rumbles at the thought of food- unhappy, but hungry all the same.

_MX: u still sleepin ? lol_

_MX: wat u wanna eat bby girl_

You wonder if all he can read is text speak, but all at once, it hits you. How he says ‘room’ when you say ‘block.’ How you asked for a  ‘snuggleplane’ and he handed you a ‘blanket.’ He speaks a different vernacular than you. What’s the highblood word for cluckbeast?

A quick goregle search reveals that highbloods called cluckbeasts ‘chickens.’ Charred grubloaf is ‘toast.’ Weird- you wonder what highbloods have against being descriptive. You’re actually pretty mad that Marvus didn’t just goregle this himself.

Voice-to-text. “Chicken soup and toast.” Send. Talking out loud brings your attention to how sticky and foul your mouth feels. And you sound awful, too, your voice hoarse with dehydration. You realize that you’re still chest down on the ablutionblock floor.

Slowly, you place your hands palm down and lift yourself up. You find that the slower you go, the less the world spins. You pull yourself up to the sink, rinsing out your mouth and washing your face. You’re starting to feel almost halfway troll again. You run a brush through your hair and pull it back for now. That’s better. You catch a glimpse of your expression in the reflection plane- you look as exhausted as you feel, but only half as queasy. You're counting that as a point in your favor.

Marvus is coming back- now’s your chance to get your hive…. If not clean, then presentable. You glance around your block- there’s some trash on the floor, discarded song lyrics littered here and there.

You make your way over to the lounge planks, ready to formulate a plan, and promptly pass out.

* * *

When you wake up, you finally understand the meaning of the word ‘blessed.’ Marvus’s hand against your forehead is a blessing, cool and comforting in a way that has nothing to do with your feelings for him. You let out a content sigh, leaning into his touch.

“Yo... you aight?”

He sounds concerned, which lets you know you look just as awful as you did before your nap. You open your eyes slowly. He’s kept the lights dim, thank fuck. Your head is still pounding. Worse now that you’ve had some sleep and the rest of your body isn’t feeling poorly enough to distract you from it.

“That feels nice,” you say, responding to his touch instead of his voice. His hand is back on your head again, and maybe you should be embarrassed that you’re so sweaty and disheveled. Maybe you should be embarrassed that you’re moving so quickly with him, but you aren’t. You just want to feel better.

“My head is killing me,” you finally relent.

“I got you,” he says, taking his hand from your forehead (you hum in protest) and rummaging in his pocket. He’s wearing the same shirt and pants from last night, although he’s abandoned his jacket. He hands you some ibuprofen along with some pocket lint, but you’re too miserable to care, downing them in one, dry swallow.

This does nothing for your stomach. It takes everything you have to keep them down, and then to take some sips of water from a glass Marvus hands you.

“Yo, you're not gonna like… die from dis shizz right?” he asks you, cautious. And though you aren’t feeling well, you laugh regardless.

“No, Marvus, a hangover won’t kill me,” you continue to laugh, pushing on his shoulder playfully. Your stomach lets out an angry rumble. “My stomach might, though,” you amend, gingerly propping yourself into a more distinguished position on the lounge planks.

“Ayy check it! I got us breakfast,” he beams at you, obviously proud. He turns to the table (and you flush, embarrassed all over again once you realize he’s organized your lyric drafts into one neat pile), and passes you a styrofoam cup of cluckbeast broth. You sip at it as daintily as you can- everything in you is screaming to drink it all down in one gulp, but experience reminds you to take it slow. He sits on the floor in front of you, elbow on the table, and takes out his own sandwich, piled high with an astounding amount of meats and cheeses and who knows what else.

“Couldn’t figure out the menu?” you tease him, nodding at his sandwich.    

“Damn maybe a jugg was hungry,” he shoots you a look, a smile bright in his eyes, between bites of his sandwich. Quite frankly, you’re amazed that he managed even one bite of that behemoth. Grub sauce drips out of the sides, but he’s quick to swipe it away and lick it off his finger. You can feel your nausea rising again, so you take another sip of your soup.

The two of you slip into a companionable silence. Your stomach is feeling much more settled now that there’s something in it. You even take a few bites of toast with butter- success! You’ve almost reached ‘functioning’ status.

You steal glances at him where you can- his face paint is smudged, his hair is flat and frizzy. Even his clothes look a little out of sorts, wrinkled and askew. You wonder where he slept last morning.

You wonder if he slept at all.

This is it, your moment to take the plunge. You wish you had more time to clean yourself up, but when the timing is right, it waits for no one.

“Hey,” you start. The word gets caught in your throat on the way up, so you employ every stage trick you know to tamp down any nervous feelings that spring up. Take one breath. Then two.

He turns to look at you fully, the last quarter of his sandwich discarded on the table as he picks delicately at his teeth. There are millions of things you could say to him right now- ‘Hey Marvus I think I actually _would_ like to be your moirail and you look exhausted so may I pap your clownish face?’ If only life were that clear cut. Time’s running out, though, your ‘hey’ stretching thin between you.

“Thank you for taking care of me,” you say. Perfect- simple, elegant, and clear. He opens his mouth as if to say something, then closes it before opening it again. He looks nervous, like he’s worried about fucking this all up.

Well, at least you’re both on the same page.

“I like you,” he says, shrugging like it’s no big deal. You’re pretty pissed that he one-upped you like that! Leave it to Marvus to say it out loud so plain and simple, unambiguous even. Though, the two of you have been orbiting these feelings together for a while, dipping in close to one another but never touching. It’s about time one of you said it.

“You scared me last night,” you tell him. You didn’t mean to say that, you don’t even know where it’s coming from, but it feels good to be honest with him. He deflates a little, subtly backing out of your space. You wonder if he gets that a lot, if maybe all highbloods do.

“I just mean… you pulled away from me on the drive here, then I woke up alone. I wasn’t sure if you were coming back,” unbidden, tears come to your eyes. “I was scared that you were going to leave me behind.”

He twists his mouth at you, his expression unreadable.  

“All I’m trying to say is,” you blunder forward, “I guess I really like you too.”

He lowers his head, and you worry that you said too much, you were too honest. But when he looks up at you, he’s smiling, the yellows of his eyes brighter than the lights of a stage.

And when he grabs your hand, leaving behind kisses lighter than dew drops on the tips of your fingers, the crowd in your head goes wild.

* * *

 

It takes some convincing that, yes, it really is fine for him to sleep here. You let him borrow some of your lounge clothes- the unofficial Grubbles shirt (or... Grubbels? The front of the shirt says the former but the back says the latter) that you lend him stretches tight over his chest, and your brown shorts on him leave very little to the imagination. But he doesn’t seem embarrassed, so you resolve to stay cool, too.

He leaves you to wash his face in your ablutiontrap. Er, bathroom? You’re nearly shaking with nerves at the thought of seeing him without his face paint, so you turn that nervous energy into productivity.

He refused your offer to take your coon, so you set up the loungeplanks for him. You pile up some pillows, then you take it all down and stack them clinically against an arm for him instead. You wouldn't want to be too suggestive, making a pile for him. You suppose this is only your second date!

You fluff out and set down your softest snuggleplane for him. You wonder if he gets cold when he sleeps? You lay out your second softest snuggleplane as well.

“Looks cozy,” he says from behind you. Sleepiness makes itself known through his posture- he looks weighed down, hunched over. He sits down without fanfare, taking his favorite pillow from the stack and laying the rest on the floor. He does end up tangling himself in both blankets before letting out a content huff.

You turn the lights off for him and lower the blinds. Then, since you have nothing better to do, you return to his side by the couch.

His bare face looks nothing like you’d expected it to- though his skin is smooth, you notice acne scars across his temples. The skin around his eyes is so dark with sleeplessness that you think for a moment that he didn’t wash his face properly. And he has eyebrows! You weren’t sure.

“Like what you see?” he opens one eye to smirk at you. You don’t respond, lightly trailing your fingers across his cheek and forehead, brushing his hair away from his face and mirroring the way he touched you earlier.

He lets out a shuddering sigh at your touch, a purr starting low in his chest. You can’t help but smile- he’s cute, all snuggled up and cozy. Sensitive, you might even say. You wonder if he’s ever done this before.

You press your hand as soft as you can into his cheek and he presses his whole face up to meet it like a purrbeast marking his scent.

“Shoosh,” you tell him. “Go to sleep.” You wonder if highbloods get nightmares.

He lets out a content breath, letting his head fall back onto the pillow. You follow him, leaving behind a tiny kiss to his temple.

And when he wakes up, he won’t wake up alone.


	5. Your Arms Above Your Head, Your Hand Above Your Heart

This is the first time this whole damn sweep you can say you’re well rested. And, check it, it’s almost the truth. You stretch your arms above your head, letting your lungs fill with the sweet air of a new day.

Seems like the kind of good fortune to get your prayer on about. Blessed be to the powers above, you're all thankful and shit.

Chixie sends you a text as you step into your car.

_CR: I still never got my dinner date /_

Ain’t that the truth.  

_MX: wat, u 2 good for breakfast or sumn ?_

_MX: nah i got u bby - im free 2nite_

_CR: Me too / I’m looking forward to it!_

_CR: :)_

_MX: LOL turn up ! ! !_

Damn, maybe it’s a little pathetic how you’re smiling at her little smile emoji like it’s the real deal. You glance around as if someone's going to tell on you. But her real smile does come to your mind, so you do nothing to push it out of your thoughts. You think of how she always gets this sympathetic look when she catches you looking. But when she thinks she’s smiling alone, she smiles with everything she’s got. 110%. All teeth and lips and her eyes half closed with the power and the shine of it. Fucking righteous.

Ideas swirl around your head. You guess you don’t know what all she likes to eat. Or, how she likes to eat- lowbloods ain’t got personal chefs. You’re pretty sure. Maybe they get down to the cooking themselves. Yeah that sounds right- thinking back to Chix’s hive reminds you that she had not a stray leftover take out box hiding in the garbage, no east Alternian food menus stuck on the fridge. You think back to the lyrics she had strewn about on her table where you might have food mess.

Church rises up in the distance, the twin moons rising behind it and lighting shit up like a benediction. Everything is right in your world right now.

So here’s the problem. As you bow your head in prayer, singing your praises and your thanks to your messiahs, you realize that the only thing you’ve ever got to cooking was your lyrics and some instant noodles. You can’t remember the last time you used the stove as anything other than a table, or something to light your blunt with.

Should you hire a chef, give her a proper tour of your hive? You guess you’d have to hire a maid staff for the night too. Anxiety curls its cold fingers in you, tingly right in your stomach. Would she prefer to see what you’re really like? Maybe she’s one of those girls who can’t stand a mess. You wouldn’t want to give her a false impression of you. But your hive is fucking sloppy. And to be honest, behind your polish, so are you. You shake your hand through your hair, frustrated.

Letting the tension of your body out with a deep breath, you lean back and sit deeper in the pew. You put your hands behind your head, closing your eyes and letting your arms take your the weight of your worries. And you take a moment to reflect, here in the quiet hustle and bustle of the church. Someone lights some incense. Alright, word.

It comes so slowly in your mind you’re like to hit yourself over the head with it, frustrated with how obvious it should be. Honesty. That’s all she’s ever wanted from you. You think back to your first real conversation, the beat you missed- something you were hiding, something you weren't saying. But that beat said it all for her.

You rub your hand over your eyes- looks like a motherfucker is getting his cook on tonight. As you pull your hand away, you realize with horror that you never painted your face this morning.

* * *

After a quick clean up at church (the face paint they keep there is lower quality than what you’re used to, but you’ll live), you’re on goregle for the better part of an hour. Easy meals seems like a pretty straightforward search, right? Except everything is ‘blacken this’ or ‘send this shit to the guillotine’ and you really just want to start simple. Easy.

And maybe you’re nervous about ruining her night. You wonder what she’s expecting. Most likely pizza- you guess you do come across as a netbitch and chill sort of dude.

Finally you settle- something for both of your tastes. Sweet potato dumplings with apples and prosciutto in a browned butter and sage sauce. A sweet meal for your sweet girl. Fancy as fuck but understated like those lace doilies they put under tea sometimes. You think it says a lot about how you feel about her.

Hm. Yeah, you’re definitely over thinking things. You got this- it’s just a meal, just a dinner date.

Until it isn’t.

* * *

When you arrive at your hive, the first thing you do is make a mental note to clean up the areas she’s going to be seeing. No point in wasting time doing a job that doesn’t need to be done. You straighten up the foyer. You change a dead light bulb in the hallway to the living room. You make sure the bathroom is well stocked and bring in a candle that you scrounge up from who knows where. Smells fresh as shit, you wonder what your hive might be like if, you know. You actually lived here for more than a few wipes of the sweep.

You finish after about an hour of fucking around, and shit’s not great- you wouldn't call your hive clean by any stretch of the imagination- but it’s good enough. You pass your time replying to dm’s on chittr, then open up clowncord, but time’s hardly passing. You’ve still got 6 hours or so until you get to see her again.

You start pacing, straightening up in ways that are so meticulous they border on the religious. Picking dust out of a light switch with your fingernail. Wetting a cloth and wiping down the floor with your foot. You nearly slip and fall right on your ass, so you repeat the process with a dry cloth. You straighten out paintings. You switch out the one huge photo of you, posing on your first album, for something more tasteful- a painting of the Sorrowful One- then switching back to the huge photo of you in hopes that it might make her laugh, or start a conversation. Has she ever even asked you about your career?

In a fit of pique, you end up vacuuming the carpet in your room. Maybe it’s vain to hope she’s gonna want to sleep here, but you pretend that you believe that you're doing this just in case you two stay up late talking. You pull out your slime slabs too- you’d let her sleep in your coon if she did end up falling asleep.

When you catch yourself fluffing pillows, folding blankets and piling them next to the couch, you know: you're getting fucking ridiculous. You aren't the sort of troll who can just sit around and wait. You pull out your phone and notice a few missed texts.

_CR: Miss me yet? /_

_CR: Okay don’t make fun of me /_

_CR: But it’s actually me that’s missing you /_

_CR: Don't tell anyone /_

You use the back of your hand in an attempt to wipe away your smile. You’re stupid pale for this girl.

_MX: hehe ur cute :o)_

_MX: but… yeah im getting all twizted up @ my hive LOL_

_MX: get this- ya boy cleaned his hive the FXXK up !_

_CR: :o !!_

_CR: I wouldn’t believe you /_

_CR: If I didn’t feel that same way earlier this evening /_

_CR: Did you know I was worried about getting my hive clean / for YOU / in between bouts of falling asleep on the floor in my ablutiontrap? /_

_CR: But I ended up asleep on the loungeplanks and you ended up cleaning up for me / haha_

A quick goregle search: Loungeplanks ( _noun)_ a long upholstered piece of furniture for several people to sit on. The couch? Lowbloods sure do like to be descriptive!

_MX: ya nbd_

_MX: i care abt u :o)_

If your intentions weren’t clear from the get-go, damn they sure are now. You pull out all of your supplies for the evening, preparing to prepare the food. You don’t need her to say it back- you think it’s very important to let her know what you're feeling.

_MX: wanna cum ovr early ?_

_CR: Yes! / I was waiting for you to ask! /_

_MX: ill pay 4 da lyft, wya ?_

And like that, you have a new problem on your hands. Damn your impulsive nature! None of your food is even close to being ready. You open up the goregle page again, get your recipe ready. Honestly, you don’t even know where to start- guess you’re winging it! You wrap yourself in your ‘Kiss the Clown’ apron- no need to ruin a perfectly good outfit so early in the evening.

You start with gathering up your ingredients, double and triple checking that everything is here, then deciding to add some other shit in there too. Spinach, bitches love that shit right? Some rainbow sprinkles- if it’s already sweet, why not sweeter? The way all of the colors move around in their glass bottle captivates you momentarily. You’re pretty good at improvising, being a slam super star and all. There’s no way this could fail. You begin by boiling some water. Step one: a resounding success. Next, you go for chopping up an apple, it can’t be too hard. You bring the cleaver over your shoulder and really let it have it with a _thwak_! The apple splits neatly in half, and so does your cutting board.

“Shizz….” you say. You hear a giggle from your doorway- damn, that was fast. You turn around, wiping your cleaver on your apron. In the arch of your kitchen, Chixie leans against the wall, her arms crossed. She’s abandoned her sweater dress for a simple black shirt with her sign and a pair of jeans. Her hair is kinda curled, a little mussed, but she’s got two purple pins with yellow stars in her hair to keep that shit in line. Her socks have chubby chibi dogs on them- you guess she took her shoes off at the door. She looks unbelievably cute.

“Any chance you missed all dat?” you ask. She shakes her head, laughing. You decide to join her.

“I think that’s the wrong tool for the job,” she says, stifling her laugh behind her hand all polite like as she pushes off the wall to join you.

She gets to work instantly, making herself at home in your kitchen. She pulls knives out of your knife block, appraising them, then takes a medium sized one over to your mutilated apple and cutting board. She gives you a look, a sort of ‘get the fuck over here’ look. Bossy.

She hands you the knife as she cleans up your mess.

“Let me show you how it’s done,” she says, cocky. She comes right in to your space, unafraid and unabashed, and she changes your grip on the knife. “Like this,” she says, re-positioning your fingers. “You’re cutting up an apple, not chopping off heads.”

She puts the apple in the center of a new cutting board, flat side down. She reaches across your body to grab your right hand and shows you all sorts of new positions to hold your apple.

“If you use your knuckles here,” she changes the angle of your hand so that the knuckles of your right hand are between the spine and the blade of the knife you hold in your left, “...the blade of the knife will never hit your skin.”

It’s slow going, but she’s right. You notice that she hasn’t left your side, scrutinizing your knife work, scolding you here and there when you chop one piece too big, or go too fast.

“How'd you learn all dis?” you ask her as your now diced apple gets pushed aside. She hands you your phone and you unlock it, letting her read the recipe. “You like to cook?”

She shrugs, turning to look at you. In her gaze- earnesty. In your heart- a fuckton of love.

“I have to. When I was just getting started on my music career,” she hands your phone back to you so that you can unlock it again, “I was spending most of my allowance on microphones, sound equipment, new parts for my husktop. Stuff like that. I had to be resourceful for the things I actually needed.”

The two of you decide to split your tasks from here- you, with your new found knife skills, are tasked with cutting up the prosciutto and peeling and dicing the sweet potato, and she, with her superior knowledge, sets out to learn how the fuck you brown butter. That shit’s yellow already. The fuck?

She keeps talking. “I had to learn how to scrounge up and bulk up meals, cheaply, and I had to learn quickly, or I’d starve. Pitiful enough that I’m a lowblood, imagine the reaction if I’d been all bones at my debut?” She laughs darkly. You decide not to join her in laughter this time, shooting her a glance that you hope says 'damn that sucks.'

Every part of you is screaming, you want to let her know she’ll never be alone again. She’ll never need to worry about that shit as long as you’re alive. But that’s not what she’s looking for. Her posture is proud, her laugh, though dark, is genuine. She’s tough.

“Sounds tough as fuck b,” you start. “But if anyone could make a shitty sitch twist to work in they favor, it’s you. Real shit.”

She moves past you to wash out her pan- she burnt the butter.

“Hmm,” she hums at you. You pass her a new stick. “Well, I did better than you,” she says, elbowing you in the ribs as she appraises your mangled prosciutto, your sweet potatoes covered in pockmarks from your peeler.

“Aww shizz!” you start to laugh as you set your knife down. “Wanna bet?” you make menacing fingers at her as she laughs, fleeing. The strings of your apron get caught on a hook behind you- ironically, the hook her pan was on- and the breath gets knocked out of you as you get bent in half at the waist.

The two of you laugh for so long- she, clutching her gut, and you, grabbing her shoulder for support- that you burn the butter a second time.

 

* * *

After about an hour and a whole nother stick of butter, you finally do brown the butter. One thing you got on Chixie is patience- a low heat for a longer time did the trick. She fussed about the recipe- your improvisations did not impress her. You were firm about the sprinkles, though, even if they only go on your half. Then she tries to improvise in your place, she wants to add some sort of bitter leafy green that you do not have.

“It would be good!” she says. “Pick some up next time, I’ll show you.”

“Hehe, you're kinda bossy,” you tell her.

“Someone’s gotta show you how it’s done,” she says, ripping leaves of sage off of their stems, giving you the side eye. Oh shit! You knock into her hip playfully and she drops all of her sage. She glares at you as she picks off a whole bunch of new leaves, but the effect is lost when she bumps you back, harder, and you pretend that she completely knocks you off balance. She has no sympathy, sticking her tongue out at you. For damn shame!

She takes some time making the dumplings- you lost your temper quick with that. Why the fuck would you need to boil the sweet potatoes, add flour and an egg, then boil it _again_? Shit seems redundant, but once she saw the gears turning in your head, getting ready to improve on that shit, she swiftly took over, kicking you out of the head chef position. You hand her your apron, and she has to roll it and tie it at the waist a certain way to convince it to fit her right. Now it just says 'Kiss Clown.' Alright. She gets it done in record time. Probably. Once she finishes, you turn back to the butter, perfectly brown, and turn the heat back on.

The two of you watch in wonder as she drops the sage leaves in, the butter bubbling up around them as they fry. To be honest, the smell of frying sage reminds you of weed. You glance at Chixie- another night, maybe, you want to be clear headed tonight. Just in case. She adds the prosciutto, and your kitchen smells alright for once. Appetizing, even with the lingering burnt smell, and it's not because you have delivery pizza stowed away in the oven.

Her thoughts seem to follow yours. “This is the first time I’ve ever cooked something that smelled like this!” You hope that’s a good thing.

She leads you around, grabbing you by the wrists to show you how and when to stir the meat around. You sneak little glances of her sneaking her own little glances into the pan- her eyes are wide, her cheeks flushed with smiling. Her nose bunches up as she tries to hide her sniffs. You could cry you’re so relieved- she’s having a good time, there’s no doubt. You can read her like a psalm.

She leans into you as she grabs the cutting board with the apples and the bowl with the dumplings, and you help her balance with a hand on her back. Well, that’s your excuse, anyway, your hands have been begging to touch her all night. She doesn’t jump, like she used to. Rather, she leans back, letting your touch deepen. Her skin through her shirt is warm, like the embers of a campfire. You rub a little on her shirt, exposing a little skin on her back, and you touch her skin lightly. She’s smooth, softer than cotton. She shudders at your touch, but allows it. Hell yeah. You try not to smirk at your victory.

“Yo, you for real like this? Uh- the cooking,” you ask.

She smiles sadly down into the pan, taking your wooden spoon so that she can stir. You rub comforting circles above her hip with your thumb.

“I guess so,” she starts. “I mean, I’m an artist. I’d be happy as long as I was making _something_.”

She’s so sure, your Chixie. She knows exactly who she is. You desperately want to kiss her, on her cheek, on her temple. But you’re still trying to figure out what’s bothering her.

Before you can make any move, she turns the burner off with a decisive _click_.

“Where are your plates?”

You grab two, letting her plate your meal. It smells wonderful, earthy and sweet.

“So we have one little problem,” she smiles up through her lashes at you, teasing.

“What's dat?”

“Well, this meal is portioned for two…” she starts. You tilt your head at her.

“Two _midbloods_ , presumably.” Ah. You’re starting to see the problem. As she divides your food evenly, you notice that your plate looks a lot smaller than what you would have given yourself out of habit.

“Ah. Hm.” you start, not sure where to begin to fix the problem. “Well... shizz, my bad Chix.”

This isn’t how this was supposed to go. Everything went perfectly- the meal you cooked together is perfect. The produce and meat were fresh, you didn’t forget anything at the store, which is the real miracle, but somehow you managed to fuck things up. Just a little. Subtly. It’s just like you, to not think about things like this. Because this is more than just some fucked up portion sizes. Sometimes the caste divide between you feels like a chasm, a path that you might never cross because you can’t read the directions and you don’t know where the moons rise to get your bearings. You bring a fist up to your forehead in frustration, leaning back on the counter.  

Her fingertips at your elbow are softer and sweeter than honeysuckle. She traces invisible patterns, spiraling out from the point of your elbow, until she grabs you by the bicep fully. You take your hand away from your face. The discount face paint from church early in the evening is starting to flake.

Her eyes meeting yours are honest, sympathetic. You know she’s looking at that same chasm between you, but baby girl was savvy, baby girl brought directions and a compass and damn it all she’s gonna carve her own path through the mountains if she has to.

“I know this great east Alternian food place that delivers,” she says.

* * *

 

You eat the dinner you made together in the kitchen. Chixie was right about two things- something bitter would have been a welcome addition, and the rainbow sprinkles were a little much. You stick to your guns though, you wouldn’t be you without a little splash of something flamboyant.

You eat your east Alternian delivery on your couch. After a lot of hemming and hawing, you convince her to watch _In Which a Group of Low Level Legislacerators Must Put Up With Crimes Against Buffoonary_ etc. The romantic subplot is cute, you watch her reactions- the gasp when their mutual flush crush is revealed, her annoyance that Pahahm doesn’t just leave her current matesprit when she’s not interested in vacillating with him any more. Your Chixie is a straight forward girl- she puts up with no nonsense, no bullshittery. Real shit.

But you notice she’s a little restless- shifting on the couch, crossing and uncrossing her legs, then doing the same to her arms. And you notice you’re a little restless- reaching over as if you want to put your arm around her, but pulling away at the last minute. Getting a fucking adrenaline rush when your knee brushes against hers. You never thought you’d see the day when you got all undone by chilling with your girl in front of a religious mockumentary.

“Hey baby girl,” you catch her attention by bumping her knee with yours once more. She turns to look at you, her arms crossed in front of her chest like she’s cold.

“Let's take this shizz to da balcony,” you suggest. She gives you a skeptical look. “I got lights and shizz up there, it’ll be a good time.”

“Real shit?” she asks this all hesitant, smiley like, like she’s been keeping those two words in her joke center and couldn’t get them out for the laughing. Then she does laugh, embarrassed. “Okay, maybe I shouldn’t have said it like that.”

“Nahh, you're good,” you say, standing from the couch. Your knees are killing you fucking fierce from sitting tense like you were, you have to brace on the arm of the couch as one lets out a sickening snap crackle fucking pop. You hold out your hand to her, and she takes it, standing all slow and polite like she’s the fucking heiress. Wiping her other damn hand on her thigh and everything, good lord. You laugh as you catch her smiling. “Come on girl we ain't got all night got dam!”

She laughs as you push her insistent up the stairs. She doesn’t let go of your hand for the whole journey and your heart feels like you just got shocked absolutely silly.

You have to take her through your personal room to get to the best balcony in your hive- on your way through your room, you turn on the lava lamp by your coon as she makes herself right at home, taking note of your posters, digging her toes into the plush carpet. You wonder if she’s ever even seen carpet before. Maybe that's insensitive. You’re glad you vacuumed. She lingers in front of your Biggie Smalls poster, and she laughs at your bright red Biz Markie poster, imitating his ridiculous puffed up pose with puffed up cheeks and throwing signs to make you laugh.

She looks at the pictures of you and your buddies taped around your vanity. Truth be told your vanity looks a mess- you got your brushes and sponges and open jars of face paint strewn all over the place like a natural disaster just hit.

She points out one image, turning to look at you with this thrilled smile on her face, trying to get you caught up in her current. You were high as fuck in that picture, arm raised in greeting, as you sit on the couch with your feet up in a greenroom somewhere. Coming from the left side of the picture is a blurry image of a whipped cream pie, going straight for your face at high speed.

“Man, you shoulda been there for the cleanup. That shizz took hours to get all the fuck out of my hair,” you start acting all affronted, but the memory brings a smile to your face. You're thankful for your friends, the good times you’ve had. You glance up, towards the dark carnival, full with gratitude towards the messiahs.

She catches you looking, then she looks up too, before looking back to you, confused. You don’t explain, walking over to join her in her space and ripping the picture with all the tenderness of a jade holding a grub off of your vanity and passing it to her. You hold it between you with mock severity. The two of you crowd around this image like the fucking Adoration of the Magi. The look on her face is so put on and serious that you snort, and when she catches you laughing she elbows you in the ribs before joining you.

You pass her the picture, she gives you this look like ‘are you sure?’ before stowing it away in her pocket. You press your finger into one of your open jars of face paint and boop her nose. She gives a little cry of outrage, balling her fists up like she’s gonna retaliate, but you’re out of her space before she has time to catch your eye.

You open the double doors (and try to wipe some fingerprints off the glass as subtly as you can with your sleeve), letting the wind carry the beaded curtains and rainbow handkerchiefs that you hang in front of the doors. You look back to her- as she wipes the face paint away on the back of her hand, the wind tousles her hair, picks at her shirt, exposing some skin on her belly briefly before she pulls it back down. Not that you were looking or anything, gentleman that you are.

She looks so alone, all lost and small in the empty space of your room. But you realize, as she turns to find you, your one foot already out the door, it’s not her that’s alone, out of place. It’s your room, lonely with the juxtaposition of company, real company.

Is this really the first time someone’s been in your space? You wonder who else has seen those photos on your vanity, and realize it’s just been you.

“I’ve never been up so high!” she says, brushing right past you. She walks right up to the rail like she’s about to give the world a piece of her mind, shout that shit from the rooftops, then she looks down. All at once, she’s gripping the rail with everything she’s got, snapping her head up and closing her eyes, presumably to deal with the vertigo.

“Gets easier once you…” you tug on the bottom of her shirt as you sit, slowly bringing one ankle under your leg as the other dangles off the side.

“...uh, sit.” you finish lamely. You forgot where you were going with that. Her face lights up once she gets her first view of the ocean.

“I’ve also never seen the ocean before!” she pumps her fists up and down in front of her, a caricature of excitement. But you feel it coming off of her in waves- this is the real deal. Joy and wonder and the deep, dark beauty of the sea.

She turns to look at you. Judging by her concerned look, your moody disposition has been noticed.

“Isn’t it dangerous?”

Sike! She’s worried about the sea. You are an enigma, unreadable with your years of stage training. You can’t wait to tell your lusus that going to clown school wasn’t for nothing.  

“Not if you got me by your side,” you wink at her, then hold up your hands in a martial arts pose. She laughs, pushing your hands down.

“I didn’t mean for me,” she’s all in your face again, tucking away a lock of hair behind her ear so you can catch the full effect of her intense expression.

You shrug. “It's all I ever known.”

“Yeah… I get that.”

You let that sit, and the two of you collapse into a comfortable silence. She leans back, taking deep breaths of the sea air. As her hand hits the ground, she brushes against your fingers. When you slide your ring finger under hers, she slides her middle finger under yours. Success! You’re holding hands now, fuck yeah.

“Hey,” she catches your attention. When you turn to look at her, you see she’s still looking out to the sea. She doesn’t move into your space. She doesn’t jostle your shoulder. She hardly moves at all.      

“If you could do anything, no repercussions or judgement,” she asks as she trails her finger over yours, “what would you be doing?”

You gesture, pointing towards your room with your thumb. She glances inside, at your record player, at your bean bag chairs.

“I'd be doin' this,” you reply. “My music makes me _me,_ you feel?”

She studies your room, her back straight and her face open. Skeptical. Then she smiles the sort of smile that’s no less genuine for being small. For being sad.

She finally meets your eyes. “But what would you do if you couldn’t? What would you do if you’d never won Slam or Get Culled?”

“I'd’ve been beheaded I guess…” you try to figure out what she’s getting at. She sighs- that was the wrong thing to say, apparently.

“Let me put it this way: you had no other _outcome_ \- getting big, making a name for yourself, that was just the next step in your life. But I have no other _option_. I struggle to get people to even listen to my name, let alone my music,” she looks down at your hands, and you intertwine your hand with hers fully, letting her squeeze you for support.

Then you say something really stupid.

“Damn troll Sisyphus didn’t see your rock the first time lol,”

Her glare cuts into you so hard you feel like you’re back at clown school, getting knives thrown at you by an amateur knife thrower.

“This isn’t funny, Marvus,” damn, you ain’t never heard your name said with such vitriol, dripping like blood off a knife. You didn’t mean to belittle her problems. You hold your hands up to her, placating.

“Ah, I'm sorry sis it was the wrong time to make a joke, you're right,” she softens at your apology, and you continue. “All I meant was… maybe you only see ‘uphill’ cause dats da obvious path. But there are, like, side streets and shizz… Ahaha I'm losing the metaphor. Uh.”

You run your hand through your hair nervously as you take a good look at her. Somehow, she’s still listening attentively. You guess this was really eating her up inside.

“Just sayin', but maybe we could knock down the mountain,” you pause, swallowing your nerves, “Together. You know?” you grab her by the shoulders, attempting to shake some of the tension out of her, hoping to hide your nerves.

She looks down to hide her smile, and you follow her down, contorting your body.

“You’re so dumb,” she says, affectionately, as she pushes your face away. You stick your tongue out at her, making silly faces. She gets all ‘eww!’ but she laughs anyway.

“Damn but you said yesterday,” you put on an exaggerated affectation of her voice “‘I like you’ hehe!”

“Wh- you said it first!” she gives you her best indignation voice.

“Yeah,” you lie back, cradling your head in your hands, letting the tension diffuse. She looks down at you, the affection plain on her face softer than the shoosh of the sea against the shore below you. _I’m here for you_ , you want to say. But you don’t think you have to. You’re starting to see that she can read you just as well as you can read her- the things you say, and the things you keep to yourself. "Sometimes, things like this don’t have to be such a big fucking deal, you know?"

A pause. “Well... I do like you,” she lets out a little harrumph like she’s challenging you or something. A moment passes. She tilts her head at you, expectant. You tilt your head back at her from your place on the floor, cocking your eyebrow. She rolls her eyes at you and sighs as she leans into your space, her hair falling out from behind her ears, getting caught in her purple pins.

“Am I going to have to do everything myself?” You want to ask her what she means, but she kisses you before you even fully form the question.

 

* * *

 

You wake up right as the first rays of sunlight start creeping up through the waves. You shift, comfortable despite the heat. A weight settles onto your chest, there’s breath at your neck, wha-

OH SHIT the sun! You sit up in a scramble, and Chixie falls off of your chest, curling around herself, dissatisfied with being woken up so abruptly. She lets out a little moan of protest as she sits up, rubbing at her eyes. She squints out to the sun, then turns her sleepy gaze your way.

“G’mornin,” she mumbles, stifling a yawn.

“Hey,” you smile at her as she stretches her arms over her head. “I set up some slime slabs if you wanna call dibs on my coon.”

“Sure.” Well that didn’t take much convincing- honestly, she sounds kind of distracted. You take a deeper look at her face- dark circles, bloodshot eyes. She must be having nightmares. She stands without fanfare, distractedly taking off her shirt and walking towards your coon. You look away, giving her some privacy. Downstairs, your lusus is stomping around in the wet sand, shoving his face under to grab at the crabs sleeping beneath. He looks up at you as he throws a crab up in the air and catches it in his teeth, and lets out a peal of clicks and chirps- knowing laughter, at your expense. He must have been watching you. Jerk.

You catch the silhouette of Chixie through your kerchief curtain, making her slow way into your coon. As soon as she’s modestly tucked away, you slip into your room, locking the double doors behind you and methodically shutting all of the shades. You stop at your vanity to wipe the rest of your face paint away, pulling your hair back for sleep.

By your coon, Chixie has her clothes strewn about haphazardly. For lack of anything to do, you fold them neatly and set them in a pile on your end table, right beside your lava lamp. When you turn to check on her, see if maybe you should turn the slime heater on, you startle once you find her watching you, awake.

“Whassup,” she slurs. Well, half awake, anyway. She stretches her arms out of the coon, slumping over the lip of it like a cat, her fingers splayed like she’s looking for something. You grab her by one hand and kiss her fingers, then up to the back of her hand, before turning it over and kissing her on the palm. Once her hand is near your face, she tickles at your jaw and behind your ear, wiggling her fingers all wild.

“Stay here,” she says, closing her eyes.

“It’s my room,” you say, tucking her hands back into the slime for her. “Ain’t got nowhere else to go.”

“No, I mean…” she trails off, yawning. It seems to take a lot of effort, but she does halfway open her eyes again to look at you. “I feel like an empty room when you leave.”

She laughs after she says that, shaking her head to get rid of the sleep that’s mussing up her thoughts.

“I mean, you know that feeling when you throw a party, and then everyone leaves and your house feels too big and too bright and suddenly empty? It’s like that.”

“You can just say you get lonely, Chix,” you say, suddenly still. Nervous energy fills you like the light reflects off the sea- hot and painful and giving you the fucking jitters.

“Just... get in the coon with me, jerk. It’s too hot in here anyway. Come cool me down.”

And now her voice is getting all suggestive, and that nervous energy fills you tenfold.

“I mean… you sure?” you ask.

“Yeah. I’m sick of dancing around each other. Like you said, it doesn’t have to be this big fucking deal.”

You huff out a nervous laugh. You guess you did say something like that. She watches you take off your shirt, but by the time it’s up and over your head, her eyes have closed and her soft snore is filling the room again. You kind of wish she was awake so she could reassure you, but you know eventually you just gotta trust yourself to be doing the right thing. Might as well be now

You try to join her in the coon without disturbing her too much, but you’re a big troll, and you can’t help but fuss with her to make some room for yourself. As she shifts into your space, laying her head on your chest, you realize she’s right- the slime is warm as fuck with her body heat. You don’t even need to turn the slime heater on. She lets out a content sigh as you settle in, nuzzling her nose between your pecs. Shit tickles, and she must know it because she does it again and again until you’ve shifted her fully into your arms. Clever girl.

You hold her head in your hand, pulling her close and kissing her crown. She lets out a content hum as you rub your thumb soothingly in her hair and on her temple.

"Sweet dreams," you think you hear her say. Or maybe you're already dreaming. Sleep takes you before you even close your eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if you all noticed my subtle warning that there will be recreational drug use in later chapters, so here I am, telling you explicitly: There will be recreational drug use in later chapters. I'll put a warning in the beginning author's note as usual for you all!
> 
> ALSO: Please check out this fanart for this chapter: https://clusband.tumblr.com/post/185863935782/disegnidipizzo-music-morails-feat-some-burnt
> 
> It's sooo good!!!


	6. An Empty Room

Papers, rules, and regulations. All in all not your favorite fucking way to start a day.

Sign here, they say. And you do, after your legislacerator scopes it the fuck out. Do you always sit so slouched? And you do, after you’ve spent all day bent over papers. Maybe you should work on that, they say. But today, you don’t.

You’re starting to get what Chix meant when she said she felt like an empty room- when you had to leave this morning, one blissful motherfucking kiss on the forehead and a sleepy goodbye later, your world lost a little bit of its colors. You guess this is that love shit.

You let everyone else leave the room first- for legal reasons, sure, but also cause your back is aching like frothing fury. You take some time to stretch your arms over your head, twisting and turning, letting your spine realign itself with a wicked crunch. That’s the good stuff.

“Marvus.”

Hm. The smokey voice and long suffering attitude can only belong to one troll.

“Sabine! Wassup buddy how you been?” Sabine has been your PR manager for as long as you can remember. They are ruthless online- anyone who’s trying to start beef, or give you a bad name, they’re gonna have to meet with Sab’s quick wit, or, failing that, their iron fucking claws.

Outside of that, they know fucking everybody. The first time you went to a bar with them, they saw more hands in twelve minutes- giving them handshakes, patting them on the back- than you get to in a sweep. Need someone good with cyber security? Got you, five minutes and it’s dead fucking done. Forgot some shit at the store? Already outside, waiting for your word. They got this way of knowing shit. Real fucking spooky, when you think too hard about it.

You wonder if what they do is strictly legal, actually, but you ain’t no snitch. Anyway, a little something anti establishment ways suits you right proper. Fuck yeah you’re breaking molds and shit. Revolutionary.

“Fine.” Oh shit you forgot you asked them a question. “Better, if I didn’t have to catch all of this second hand,” they shove their phone at you, their motions mechanical, pristine. You bet Sab would make a great surgeon. But teals ain’t got that life, and you’re thankful. You really couldn’t do this without them.

Filling their phone screen is… Ah, tabloids. A picture of you at that deli, clearly buying for two as you kick the door open. A picture of you leaning against the wall of the coffee shop, looking up from your phone like you lost someone. Worst of all, a picture of you, comforting Chixie after that night you sang karaoke for her. You linger on this last picture- Chixie’s looking down, all shiy with your hair tangled around her fingers. You got your hands all wrapped around her wrists, soothing- that shit’s really embarrassing, too personal by far. The bright blue lights of the bar sparkle off of the glass bottles on the shelves, off the holographic jacket you was wearing, lighting her up front and fucking center. Unreal. If it were in any other context, you might have cropped that, made it your phone background. But the implications set little busy bees all buzzing in your torso. The headline reads _Clowndestine Romance: From Circus to C-List._ Real classy.

“She ain’t gonna be too happy about this one,” you look up towards Sabine and they arch once perfectly manicured eyebrow at you, tilting their head as if it’s a joke.

Then they reach behind them and pick up two cups of coffee from who even knows where. You hear the distinct slosh of coffee grinds, familiar. Who knew Sabine had a sense of humor?

Then they push you back into the office.

Aw, shit.

* * *

“I was wondering when you were going to tell me,” they ask you, bobbing a tea bag into a cup of tea. Your coffee cups have been long since discarded, you would have set fire to them if you could. Sometimes, you forget Sabine is funny like that.

And, sometimes, you forget Sabine is dangerous- the smooth skin of their face, the deep, empty space of their mind, both betraying not a single got damn thing.

“Yeah sorry cuz,” you say, distracted. Five fucking hours you spent at this place already- you’re starting to get cranky. “I thought it was best to not get to telling anybody.” With a rush of shame, you realized you never asked Chixie her thoughts on it.

“Well, you can’t ‘not get to telling anybody’ until you tell me first.” Their face is neutral, but you get the privilege of watching them pick up pieces of an ‘I’m pissed off’ expression off a metaphorical table and sticking them on their blank expression like Mx. Fucking Potato Head. The fuck is that about. “I run your social media. I need to make sure I know what I’m looking for in order to-”

“Alright, alright, we frosty Sabs,” you wave your hands in the air, impatient. “I got you next time, you’ll be the first to fucking know. We done here?”

“We are _not_ done here,” they start. You start to groan, ready to start fucking pacing with the impatience brewing in you, before you see them smile.

“I’ve actually been meaning to find someone... like her. I know a guy who asked me if I knew a guy… the long of the short of it is: he wanted you to sing at Salt and Shaker. But it’s not the right scene for you,” they lower their head and raise a brow at you…

“But it might be right for her,” ...and, yeah, you catch their drift. They fold their hands in front of them when they finish, waiting for your final word.

“I mean… I guess I gotta ask her,” they wait, apparently not satisfied with your answer. “Messiahs, Sabine you might be my PR manager but I ain’t hers. You can wait for an answer aight?”

They nod, and you rush out of there, the promise of freedom lighting up your steps. You check your phone- a hundred and seventeen notifs on chittr, too many notifs to count on clowncord, thirty seven dms and two missed calls.

And two texts from Chixie.

* * *

 

“Salt and Shaker? For real?” Chixie lights up behind her sandwich, excitement running through her like a current, straightening her right out.

“Yeah, sis, Sabine says they know a guy,” you lean into her conspiratorially. “But, real talk, I think you’d be doin’em a favor.”

Selling this idea to Chixie was a lot easier than you thought it was going to be. You decided to give it to her straight, letting her know that it wasn’t the right scene for you but it would be a perfect fit for someone up and coming. She took that comment well, you watched the pride well up all in her chest as she puffed up, sat straighter. It feels good to be honest with her, and she makes it easy.

But that’s not all you have to say. And here comes the hard part. Suddenly, you wish you had the surgical precision that Sabine’s got. Straight to the point, no frills or fins. But you ain’t that guy.

“So, uh…” you start twiddling a fork between your fingers, nervous all the sudden. She looks at you with all the patience of stained glass- transfixed, unmoving. “That’s not all we got to talking about.”

“Uh-oh, are they giving you a new hairstyle? Changing the color of your shoes?” She laughs, easy, but you know she’s listening, all meeting your eyes and twitching her ears forward the way she is. She’s giving you her full attention. You know she’s trying to set you at ease.

“I’d be pretty upset if they cut your hair before I got my hands on it,” she says, folding her hands to rest her chin, lowering her eyes at you and wiggling her brows. Cutie.

“No, it’s, uh…” you feel tight in the chest when the word ‘moiraillegiance’ comes to mind. “I guess we gotta talk about… boundaries and shizz.” You hate acting like an adult- no fun allowed.

She tightens up a bit, crossing one ankle over the other, playing with her straw.

“Did I do something wrong?” she asks, so small and shy that you just want to abandon the whole conversation. But. Adult stuff. You gotta do it.

“Nah nothing like that haha,” you smile wide as you grab her by the shoulder and try to shake some of the tension out of her. She loosens up, laughs a little- works every time.

“It’s just… we posting shit online about us? Taking photos together and shizz? Going full out public with the wicked news?”

She thinks about that, takes a sip of her drink.

“I was thinking about that, actually,” damn, leave it to your Chixie to be _thinking about it, actually_ , way before you were. “I’m worried that people are going to… talk.”

“Yeah? They gonna talk regardless, chickapea. It’s up to you if you wanna, you know…” you wave your hand in the air inarticulately.

“Give that talk direction?” she suggests.

“Hehe exactly,” there’s a moment where you think about going for a fist bump, proud of yourself for getting through this conversation so smoothly. But you wait. A fist bump can’t be up and fucking rushed.

She chews on your conversation some more. You’re a little worried she’s gonna chew it to bits, letting it fester, but she’s a quick thinker.

“I’m proud to be your moirail and everything,” oh shit hot damn! The minute she says this you can feel the heat of your face lighting up. She gives you this look like she’s exasperated or something. Your emotions are tumbling around in your chest like clothes in a dryer.

She holds her finger out to you, scolding. “Let me finish,” You give her your full attention again, patient as pantomiming. “The more I think about it, the more I think it’s smart to keep it on the, uh, down low. I don’t want people thinking I’m with you because I’m riding on your coat tails,” she reaches forward to your jacket and gives it a playful tug. You catch her hand and you catch her drift.

“Nah I got you,” you lean in, lowering your voice.

“I know you only got with me cause you like me so much,” you tease her.

She’s got no retort for that one, narrowing her eyes as she smiles at you like you got her good with that one. She stands and passes you her hand, helping you up. You loop your elbow with hers, glad for the proximity- she’s warm- and for a little extra stability. As you start to walk together, something catches her eye, twisting her at the head and slowing her foot falls. She turns to you with a wicked look.

“Hey,” she starts, getting all smiley. “You know those pictures on your vanity?”

You nod, pulling her aside to get the fuck out of everyone’s way.

“Want to take some more?” she points behind her to… some sort of shed or some shit, with a curtain.

It turns out you ain’t got much say in the matter. She pulls you right over, explaining the mechanics of it all.

It’s not like it’s complicated. Just takes pictures. You’ve done that before.

Still though, your heart stutters in your chest. You want to do this right. Feels important or something.

All it takes is one flash of the camera, one press of her lips against your cheek, before you forget all about feeling like your empty room.


	7. The Riddle Box

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “It was wise enough to know itself, and brave enough to be itself, and wild enough to change itself while somehow staying altogether true.” -Patrick Rothfuss

Falling asleep in Marvus’s limo is a surprisingly fitting end to the night. You think back to your time on stage- the sweat on your back, the tension in your face. Marvus’s single kiss to your nose as he was escorted out of the backstage area. All in all, it’s been an alright night. Searching your name on Chittr actually brings up posts- and, more surprisingly, it’s mostly neutral-to-positive. 

But the thing is, people are saying your name. You hide your smile as you stow your phone away. Marvus is, unsurprisingly, asleep in the seat next to you. You settle a little closer to him, brushing his hair back. 

His eyes flutter open. A smile forms on his face as he slowly recognizes you. You think about how he’s been stuck doing paperwork all day and feel a little pang of guilt as you realize you sort of dragged him out with you tonight.

“We at your hive already?” he says around a yawn. His hand finds your head and he pulls you into his chest for cuddles. He hums, completely content, as you kiss him on the collarbone.

No, of course he would have wanted to be there. What were you thinking?

“Almost home,” you finally reply. The high from your night is still rushing through you- maybe you should be tired, winding down, but you aren’t. Not yet. “I know you’re the one driving me home, but are you sure you’ll be able to get to your hive alright?”

“No worries babe my driver’ll wake me,” he waves his hand in the air like he’s waving your worries away.

You hesitate. You know the two of you have been seeing a lot of each other lately. But…

“You can stay at my hive. If you want,” you offer.

“No can do Chix I got a full fuckin plate this week.” His face gets a little harder- you can see that he has lots of stress and he’s just… letting it accumulate. He gets like that sometimes- it’s frustrating! But now isn’t the time for that conversation. You put that on the proverbial back burner for the time being, running your hand under his shirt and rubbing at the tension twisted in his back.

“Well, if you get lonely, I’m just a phone call away,” you tell him as the limo pulls up to your hive. You wonder what the neighboring hiverings must be thinking. “It might be easier for you if you had someone to… lighten the tension? Make you laugh?” With this, you go in for the kill, tickling at his ribs to prove your point. Already he seems to be simmering down.

He does laugh, struggling against you but not pulling away. You both know he’s strong enough to throw you through the window if he wanted, but he doesn’t. Once you stop your assault on his sides, you sit back up, embarrassed. Can his driver see you? You set your hair to rights and gather your things, leaving the limo. 

You lean in once more to Marvus, kissing him goodbye sweetly on the forehead. You hope he sleeps well tonight.

As you step into your hive, turning on some lights to let your lusus know that you’re home, you check your phone again. Your heart stills in your chest when you see three new messages from Zebruh Codakk.

_Hey sweetie. ♥ I saw your debut on grubtube- might I say, outstanding work ♥_

You would hardly call tonight your ‘debut.’ Your good mood is starting to dissolve, frustration and anxiety bubbling up to take its place. Your lusus comes out from wherever she was hiding, rubbing up against your legs with her tail held high and letting out a cacophony of chirrups and caws at you.

_I have to say, I’m pretty disappointed I wasn’t consulted. ♧ I mean, I DO know the music scene a little better than you. ♧_

You scratch behind her feathers to relax, then down her back to where feathers and fur meet. She does that thing where her eyes close really slowly- her version of a smile- before puffing up all of her feathers, shaking them out and resetting them.

_If you’re going to make it in a highblood dominated world, why not invest in a highblood?_

What an asshole- you scowl with as much force as your face can take. Yeah, take that! You take out your container of cluckbeast scraps out of the thermal hull and toss them to your lusus. She catches them deftly out of the air, spreading out her wings and chirping in pride. You smile- you’re glad she’s around. She’s been acting shy with the amount of company you’ve been having lately.

As you stow away your lusus’s dinner, something stuck to the door of your thermal hull catches your eye. It’s a scrap of the same dull yellow paper as the menu from the deli that Marvus brought you soup from. There are no words, but two pictures- a smile with a clown nose and a diamond, signed _MX_. 

You can feel your face soften, your shoulders lower from under your ears. From within your pocket you retrieve that strip of photos that you took with Marvus earlier in the day, and you take a moment to admire them. He’s clearly never seen a photo booth before- the top picture is of you, kissing his cheek, and him with his eyes wide and mouth all wobbly in surprise. The flash lights up the purple starting to come into his irises, reflects off of the shine in his hair. In the second picture he appears to have regained his composure, leaning back and crossing his ankle over his knee, his arm coming around your shoulder. But you know better. You know him. You can see the blush of his ears, the nervous habit he has of tucking a strand of hair behind his right ear. The third picture is your favorite- you had turned to ask if he was alright and he said he was. But the camera went off as you were both smiling, facing each other. Your posture is straight, like you’re prepared to take flight, and his posture is soft, like he really wanted to kiss you.

And in the fourth photo, he did.

You stick this strip of photos to your hull, right next to his note. It’s something to look forward to seeing every night.

And, with a burst of courage, you block Zebruh Codakk from ever contacting you again.

* * *

It took some convincing, but Marvus does let you join him on his busiest day of running errands.

You can’t help it, a full week without him and already your chest feels empty. You don’t care if he knows that you like spending time with him.

“Whatchu think of this one?” he holds a thin strip of fabric up against his chest- it’s long with weird waves near the top and bottom, patterned with purple, brown, lavender, and olive plaid.

“You look like you were just painted by troll Bob Ross,” you tell him. Marvus is more of a primary colors plus purple kind of guy. Maybe that’s just a clown thing. “What is that anyway? A headband?” 

He gives you this look like he doesn’t understand what you’re asking, then realization dawns on him, his mouth opening in an ‘oh!’

In one fluid motion, he drapes it over his neck. He crosses the two halves over each other in front of the hollow of his throat, tucks one under the other to form a sort of knot, somehow bends the wavy part of one half on top of itself before using the other half to wrap around it and then finishes it all off with a flourish, clapping it in his hands. Your head is spinning, knots are more of a maritime interest. When he pulls his hands apart, a perfectly tied bow-tie springs free. All of that for a bow? You can think of 15 ways to make it easier, just off the top of your head.

“That seems like a lot of work for such a little thing,” you tease.   

“Hehe I could say that about a lotta things in my life right now,” he winks at you before handing the tie back to a salesperson. Someone calls his name from behind a counter, and he picks up a flat, black box. He opens the lid, counting and appraising, making sure everything is there. You almost can’t believe it- not only does Marvus own hundreds of bow-ties, but he gets them all dry cleaned at least twice a sweep.

Although, you suppose that being on stage is sweaty work. Perhaps it’s for the best.

He seems to be on good terms with the person who dry cleans them, waving goodbye with a genuine smile. Maybe more than twice a sweep, then, you think with a smirk.

He meets his costume designer for some sort of discussion about his upcoming show. She's a lithe woman, the cerulean hook in her horn a strange contrast to the olive skirt she wears, the simple linen top. You apparently need little introduction, a “...and this is Chixie,” is enough for the eyebrow-raise-and-half-smile. You move in for a handshake- _fist bump,_  Marvus helpfully supplies in your head. As you go in for the fist bump, her hand changes from fist to palm, going for the hand shake. Marvus laughs uproariously next to you, laughing at his own joke. You watch her avert her eyes, embarrassed but still smiling, and introduces herself as Sabeta. You both shake hands this time, and she turns her full attention to Marvus.

They talk for a long time, longer than you would have imagined, about his upcoming show.

“Marvus, it’s going to be over a hundred degrees that night. I think,” she flips through her sketchbook until she finds the right page, “we can still give you a jacket, but make it from spider silk. It’ll be lightweight but sturdy enough to handle… you.” She points to different sketches.

“I like that sketch of the jacket with the huge shoulder pads,” you smirk up at Marvus, hoping he catches on to your private joke with him. His costume designer huffs a little, half proud and half condescending.

“Right, well, between the heat and the high winds predicted for that night,” she uses a red marker to cross out the sketch, “I think that one is right out.” She sits back and folds her arms together, proud as a cat. Sabeta is kind of a bitch.

“Damn, hot and windy, huh?” Marvus sounds distracted. He starts muttering something under his breath- _On the perfect night the wind is blowin' hard enough to sway the trees, and it's about a hund’ed degrees._ Verse? You know he’s religious, and it sounds too well practiced to be lyrics.

You try to catch his eye and realization hits you like a scuttlebus. He isn’t distracted, he’s exhausted. You notice the puffiness around his eyes, the bend of his spine- doesn’t he normally sit up straight? You aren’t surprised that his costume designer hasn’t noticed, clowns aren’t known for their proper posture. Has every day this week been this busy for him? You wish he would let him help you carry some of the weight. 

The two of them finally agree on something with pom poms and multicolored stripes, and Sabeta leaves you in a rush. You stick your tongue out at her retreating form, and Marvus laughs beside you.

“Yeah, she ain’t always easy, sorry bout dat,” he stands slowly, you notice that he does actually put weight on his cane-sword today. And you thought it was just for looks! He rubs at his temples, then gives you the side eye when he catches you looking.

“Gotta visit my chiropractor again,” you don’t know what a chiropractor is. “Getting migraines lately like got damn!”  

The two of you walk side by side in silence for some time. It is getting hot out- what did Marvus say the other day? That you were bulge deep in the summer heat, burns on your skin and blisters on your feet? He made up some kind of rhyme for you- you stifle your laugh at the memory.

You loop your arm into his, taking some of his weight. This turns out to be a mistake- he’s slender enough, but he’s dense with muscle, heavy in the way that you guess all highbloods must be. But you soldier on.

“Marvus,” you catch you attention. He points to a dragonfly, colored green and blue and lavender, stopping you in your tracks as you watch it fly away together. “You seem stressed.”

“Yeah, my chiropractor’ll straighten me right back to silly, no worries,” he always makes it sound so easy.

“You could just come over.”

It turns out, you can make things sound easy, too.

* * *

Everything you knew- or thought you knew- about Marvus Xoloto has drained right out of your pan and down your posture column and into your guts. To say that you’re working on instinct is a stretch- your thoughts spin like leaves in the wind- perceptible, but out of grasp, difficult to catch hold of.

You think back to that night you cooked together- he didn’t know what he was doing, so it wouldn’t be too hard to impress him. A big meal, with lots of variety, might be nice.

Your allowance begs to differ. It’s been a slow month, and you’d bought a new protection filter for your microphone, before you realized the problem was the microphone itself. It set you back significantly for the month. And, as a bronze blood, it’s not like you can just return those things.

Twisting the unopened box in your hands, absently reading the label, you sit at your desk and lean back in your chair. You look at the meager amount of groceries set on your counter, at your lusus chewing on some of the fruit you left out specifically so she wouldn’t eat your vegetables for tonight. 

The things you do for love.

That thought makes you pause. Love? You love your lusus. You love your music. Do you love Marvus? It seems a little soon. You haven’t even properly papped him yet- although, you suppose he has papped you. 

You take a breath to calm your racing thoughts. Marvus’s voice pops into your head- it’s been doing that lately. _Sometimes, things like this don’t have to be such a big fucking deal._ There’s no rush to put a name to things yet. You are, as the clowns say, vibing. That’s enough for you.

You check your fridge one more time- you have a left over pie crust from when your alien friend came over to celebrate your performance at Salt and Shaker. You didn’t think it was that big of a deal, but there’s something uplifting about celebrating little things like that. You have two cluckbeast ovum- you think you need two more, just to be safe. In your vegetable drawer, you have half of a sweet potato, a few bits and pieces of a few different squashes, and some corn (off the cob). Combined with the squash and the two carrots you bought tonight, it should be plenty. 

It’s going to be hard work, but you’ve got this. You search your house high and low for some of the feathers your lusus sheds and gather them into a little bag. You go through your closet and find that one pillow you don’t love.

One good thing about living in a subgrub full of rusties is that everyone needs something. And you’re a very good listener, intuitive and kind in the way that gets people talking.

You stop at that one artist’s house down the block- you never catch her name, but you know her sign is something like ‘arza.’ You trade her your lusus’s leftover feathers for a single cluckbeast ovum. She likes to use the feathers as paint brushes, or in sculptures. You make a mental note to come over and take a look at her art some time. 

Next, you stop at Auriel’s treehouse. Auriel is a young bronzeblood whose psychic imprint is so sensitive that the scurry of the animals across the forest floor cause him migraines at day. He lives up high because the sound of the wind through the trees drowns them all out. You heard that his lusus was nesting again- you sympathize with him for a bit, because he likes to be heard but also because your lusus tears up your plush surfaces, too, then you offer him a pillow in exchange for two of his smaller songbeast ovum, as well as a generous dollop of some creamy, sweet coagulated milk protein. 

You go through the list again on your way back to your hive. Pie crust, vegetables, filling. You should be able to make something from this.

Back at your hive, you turn up some music and set to work. You do your best to pump yourself up- woohoo Marvus is coming over! You’re excited to see him! Then you get to chopping and cutting.

First, you chop all of your vegetables to be about the same size. You save the carrot tops and some corn for your lusus, who seems to be busy bobbing her head and hopping around to the music. Next you whisk your collection of cluckbeast ovum with the coagulated milk protein, because why not? Your lusus goes crazy over the sound of the whisk hitting the bowl- leaning in with interest then startling every time you make a noise. You add the vegetables to this mix and pour it into your pie crust. For all of the hassle it was to get your ingredients, the actual meal was surprisingly easy to make. You swell with pride- it feels good to make something new out of something left over, something gathered.

The oven proves to be a bit of a challenge- do you go with Marvus’s route, a low heat for a long amount of time? You kind of just want it to be done so you can taste it before he gets here, make sure it’s alright. 

Maybe medium heat, then, for a… medium amount of time. It’s a place to start.

It takes no time at all before Marvus is at your door. You greet him with a handshake, but, as he takes he shoes off, he picks you up and spins you around in an excited hug. There’s not getting around it- you really needed that. It’s been a good night, but a long night.

As he sets you down, the both of you giggling with the happiness and relief that just comes from being around each other, you draw his face close to yours and give him a kiss on one cheek, then the other.

You watch him move around in your hive, already comfortable in your space. He stops in front of your hunger trunk to take a look at the note he wrote, the pictures you took together. You watch his expression soften as he glances toward you. You politely pretend not to notice as you busy yourself taking the food out of the oven.

Once you place your tray down, doing your best to not get upset over the burnt edges, his arms circle you, softer than a summer’s breeze. He rests his chin on your head as he starts to sway with you. You bring your left hand to his and squeeze.

“Smells good,” he mumbles into your hair, sleepy.

“Rough week?” you ask as you lean even further back into his embrace. He doesn’t respond, sighing into your hair. “I’ll make it an easy night, then.” 

* * *

As the night carries on, you start to realize that you weren’t the only one looking forward tonight. Marvus does eventually tell you all about the shitty things in his week, and he laughs, listening attentively, when you describe the events leading up to what you had to do to make dinner tonight. He doesn’t offer to buy you things, and he doesn’t sound sorry for you. It’s more than you could have hoped for.

Still, Zebruh’s last message for you rings through your skull. _If you’re going to make it in a highblood dominated world, why not invest in a highblood?_ Is that why you’re doing this? Are you playing into some sort of caste stereotype?

 _No,_  you think, looking back to Marvus’s splayed form, taking up your loungeplanks as he considers your list of movies. _Of course not,_  you think, when he pulls out that one movie that reminds you of troll Shakespeare’s _Keep Your Ho in Line_ (but less casteist.) It’s a lot more romantic than you would have expected- you guess you thought he would have gone for a horror, or a thriller. 

Once he sets up the movie, he comes to sit at the table with you, giving you a sheepish look. 

“Hey, uh,” he starts softly. “I was gonna get my nails did tomorrow. But I thought maybe you could help if you wanted?”

He holds his hands out to you. It must be bad if you, someone who’s painted her nails exactly twice, can see how bad they are. His claws are long, the smooth polish giving way to the flat orange of his nails. He must put a lot of polish on, considering the way the colored parts of his nails look raised.

For all of the favors he could ask you for, this is the most traditional. Nail filing is a pale bonding activity as old as time.

“I’m not sure if I know how?” you tell him. You trace the intricate gold patterns painted on his nails.

“Oh no biggie I could show you,” with horror, you watch him rip off one of his nails. “I get press ons.” You wish he would have told you before he implied that he regularly involved himself in a torture method for vanity’s sake. You’re feeling a little light headed.

The whole process is a little more involved than that, it turns out. He has to soak his nails in some water, rub oil on them, then some sort of solvent breaker before the nails can come off. And that’s only step one. You see why he wanted help with this.

You get to work oiling up the fake nails on his left hand while he soaks his right. You watch him slowly melt against the couch as you rub on his fingers, so you decide to draw it out, massaging the palm of his hand and his wrist. He hums, completely content.

Eventually, though, his love for his own voice wins over his sleepiness. He talks to you for a long time about how his PR manager finally found a matesprit, and how relieved he is about it.

“I hope they’re nicer than your costume designer,” you tell him.

“...Nah,” he laughs. You laugh with him- it seems silly that Marvus, the most easy going man you’ve ever met, gets stuck working with a bunch of hard-asses. 

“I can’t imagine why you’re so stressed,” you tease him, popping his nails off one at a time.

He shrugs his shoulders. “I dunno, maybe I’m hoping matespritship’ll soften them out a lil, you feel me?”

You guess you do feel him.

“I had no idea you were such a romantic,” you give him the side eye as you rub the rest of the adhesive off of his nails, moving onto the next hand.

“Yeah, we pick it up at church,” he starts.

He recites something: _I'll forever love you, even if you're doomed, we'll always be together cuz we're both under the moon._ Then he freezes, panicked like he didn’t realize he was speaking aloud. “That’s my favorite story. It’s cute.”

“I don’t mean to be rude, but I never imagined clown stories could be… sweet,” you smile up at him, letting him know it’s alright. He regards you for a moment, then he lets out a laugh.

“Yeah I guess it ain’t _that_ sweet though, I mean, how romantic is being sentenced to death?”

“Depends on your intentions,” you start. “Dying for the right reasons is always more heroic than living for the wrong ones. There’s romance there.”

“Yeah, you right,” he nudges you with his foot. “You’re smart.” He must have caught on to something wary in your tone, because his tone is easy, noncommittal. 

You stifle a laugh, remembering something from earlier.

“Can I tell you something bad I did?” you suppress an incredulous laugh as he brings out the nail file. Where is he keeping all of this?

“Hehe lemme hear it,” he leans in like you have this big, juicy secret. You play along.

“I finally blocked Zebruh Codakk’s number,” you cover your mouth and make an ‘oops’ expression. He scoffs, looking annoyed.

“Man, that bilge-bulge fucks wit you too?” you almost can’t believe you don’t have to describe Zebruh in all of his awful glory, but you’re thankful. “I fuckin hate that dude, always sucking the mess from me and my buddies shizzholes and calling it gourmet. It’s not that deep bro.”

You close your jaw after it drops. Those are some pretty deep feelings. You can feel your face shifting from shocked to mischievous.

“Is that why you haven’t blocked him yet? Because you hate him _so_ much?” you push at him playfully.

“Nah, it ain’t that,” he says, “I just… can’t. I mean, how it’s gonna look when the only person I block is some influencer?”  

“You could tell him to fuck off, because it’s apparently” you put on an imitation of his voice, “ _not that deep_.”

“C’mon now,” he’s trying, and failing, not to laugh. “You know why I can’t do that.”

You don’t, actually.

“I ain’t that guy, all up in your face and shizz,” he glances at you. “I prefer to just… let things slide. Stay frosty and all dat.”

“You’re going to have to work for something eventually,” you chide him lightly. 

“Hehe, maybe,” he says absently as he admires his now immaculate nails.

“But not tonight,” he says as he brings out his box of new press-ons, this time with a lime green and purple clown theme.

You groan, exasperated, but a smile bubbles up through you anyway.

* * *

There’s something about just being around Marvus that makes you… jittery? Restless? Excited, maybe. Either way, he seems to feel it too. His offer to go on a walk with you couldn’t have come sooner.

Your subgrub is really nice around this time of the late evening- most of the older lowbloods are just getting back from work or spending time with their quadrants, and the younger ones tend to keep to themselves. You lead Marvus around the nicest parts of it, showing him Auriel’s tree hive (Marvus has never seen a tree hive and he makes a big fuss out of it), taking him close to the water (he tells you his hive isn’t so different from yours and you get to give him shit for it), then to a little courtyard surrounded by trees and moss all the way out in the ass end of the cull-de-sac.  

You don’t say it out loud, but you’re proud of this place. The little community you’ve stumbled into, how everyone pitches in to make things nice around here. But you’re especially proud of this grove. 

It was a meeting ground for lowbloods to trade illegally, way back when. Allowances used to be a lot stricter, and lowbloods used to be a lot closer. There’s something about living in this particular subgrub that’s like stepping back in time, tradition carrying over from troll to neighbor, the easy way of living ingrained in the soil, the trees, the whole spirit of the place. With a little effort and a lot of clean up, this little trading ground has become the pride of the whole subgrub.

Encouraging Marvus to take his shoes off is much more of an effort than you thought it would be, but it’s worth it when you see him react to his first step onto the moss lawn that surrounds you. Little sprigs of moss and tiny white flowers spring up from between his toes where he places his feet, tentatively, down. He scrunches up like he stepped on something gooey, his whole face determined to meet his nose right in the center. The torchbugs are out in force tonight to rival the string lights that wrap around the trees, the stars that shine in the sky. 

You guide him to one of the benches more on the outskirts of the clearing, close enough to the lights so that you can see him, but far enough away from the entrance that you feel like you’ve got some privacy. Marvus is noticeably out of his element, stepping around like a cat with tape on his paws. You’re glad you get to see this side of him- he always seems so comfortable, so sure. It’s nice to see him look how you feel around him on your those days where you’re out of sync.

As he sits, he does settle down a little bit. Then, he pulls out a joint. Or a blunt? You never learned the difference, but you’re pretty sure the small white ones are joints.

“You good if I spark up?” he asks you. You nod and he’s quick to hold it in his mouth, inhaling as the flame licks at the… paper. Right? You sure are glad you’ll never have to say these words out loud.

You watch him in profile as the smoke slowly filters out through his nose. With his exhale, some of the tension leaves his body, his eyes close. It’s a relief- he was starting to look so wound up that you were getting sympathy pains.

“Can I try?” you ask him. He opens one eye at you, smiling.

“You done this before?”

“No, but how hard can it be?”

“Aight, just take a small hit though. And take it slow. You got water around here?”

You don’t.

“Hehe, it’s gonna feel like you got your chest rubbed fucking raw,” he passes it to you. You catch the scent- earthy and musky, it reminds you a little bit of the moss carpet that surrounds you.

You take the tiniest inhale of it that you can and hear Marvus giggle beside you. Taking this as a challenge, you take a slightly bigger inhale. You feel his arm on your shoulder, giving you a look like _that’s enough._  And he’s right. 

The moment you exhale, your chest feels like it’s on fire. You cough a little, and that burning feeling changes to something different, like you’ve got elastic bands tight around your sternum.

You glare at Marvus through your coughs, though he doesn’t deserve it. He did warn you.

“People do this to relax?” you ask him, incredulous, between coughs.

“Just give it a second,” he scoots a little closer to you, wrapping his arm around your shoulders. You pass the joint back to him and he takes another hit. He doesn’t cough at all.

The two of you watch the stars for some time as the high finally does hit you. It’s not unpleasant- you mostly feel a little sleepy and giggly, almost drunk but without the nausea and disorientation. You lean your head on his shoulder, and his hand soothes at your hair. It’s really… great. Marvus is great. This whole night is just so… great.

“Ayy, the mystery box is out tonight,” he points up towards a cluster of stars. You guess you can… kind of see it? There’s something vaguely square up there.

“Oh no, are we going to be devoured by the fog?” You giggle at him. It’s good luck that literally the only thing about juggalos you know happens to be what’s shining in the sky tonight. Serendipitous. 

“Nah, nothing like that,” he leans in to face you, joining you in your giggle fit then tickling you to keep it going. You slip off of the bench in an effort to get away, but he follows you, pinning him beneath him. 

His hair falls around you like a piece of dark water, sleek and shiny and honestly it smells sort of tangy and metallic like glacier ice. You tuck it behind his ear and push on his chest to get him to lie on his back beside you. As a consolation, you grab him by the hand. You hear him pull in a breath beside you.

And you realize, in this moment, you do love him. As simple and clear as a freshwater pond, your heart is found full of love.

Your body relaxes with this newfound knowledge.

“Show me again,” you ask him. “The riddle box.”

He points his fingers towards NQ4, tracing slowly from star to star. You can picture it, now that you’re at the same perspective. A box, the lid open, with a fog seeping out.

“It’s meaningful,” he states, and you know he means it’s meaningful to him. “It’s all about fuckin uh, the uncertainty we feel all and every fucking day. The fear of stagnation. The courage of change.” 

His smile has gone wide and peaceful on his face. You can’t help but kiss him, nuzzling your nose into his as your world gets a little dizzy around you. You kiss him on one cheek. You kiss him on both. You breath him in like the fragrance of a flower. And you love him.

When you pull away, you notice a single tear roll its way down his cheek. You wipe it away, concern plain on your face. You hope.

“Aw, I’m sorry Chix. My week has been hell and holy high water. I ain't tryna give you the waterworks,” he laughs, though his tears come harder. He sniffles as you hold his face in your hands, wiping his tears with your thumbs, brushing his hair from his face. Papping him more gently than a feather cuts through the air.

And here, under the light of the riddle box, you accept the uncertainty you’ve felt, and embrace the change you’ve gone through.

And here, with the torchbugs all around you, you fall in love with Marvus Xoloto one more time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Okay just so it's clear I headcanon Chixie's lusus to be a little magpie/domestic cat sort of griffon.)
> 
> Thank you all for reading! There were going to be like 3 more chapters, but I scrapped them. Here felt like the natural place to stop. There's going to be more Marvus/Chixie in the future, though!


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